


Someone To Watch Over Me

by TellMeNoAgain



Series: Roaring Hot [9]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Noir, Dark Harley, Dark Tony, Dubious Consent, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, F/M, M/M, Mental Instability, Mob Boss Tony Stark, Mob Typical Violence, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Language, Polyamory, dark bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:26:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22868593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: Part 9 of the "Tony Stark is an insane 1920's Mob Boss and there's sex everywhere" fic, which, okay, SOME OF YOU ARE ASKING FOR MORE. I'll write more as long as you ask for it, ya crazy mooks.~~~Weeks after the trip to the Black Shield, Harley's up to something, he's been ducking his bodyguard Bucky to go sneak off property.  What's he doing, and how long is he going to get away with it?
Relationships: BASICALLY EVERYBODY/EVERYBODY - Relationship, Harley Keener/James "Bucky" Barnes, Harley Keener/Peter Parker, Harley Keener/Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Harley Keener/Steve Rogers/James "Bucky" Barnes, Harley Keener/Tony Stark, Peter Parker/James "Bucky" Barnes, Peter Parker/Steve Rogers, Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Tony Stark/Pepper Potts
Series: Roaring Hot [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1591804
Comments: 270
Kudos: 384





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the amazing mindwiped and jf4m, THANK YOU SO SO SO MUCH. I'm sorry if you now need to clean up your soul. I'll... I'll pay for the cleaning, just get me the receipts. As always, any remaining errors are all mine.
> 
> If you've read darkfic before, proceed, mine is pretty tame so far (later chapters may get worse, although it sure SEEMS like everything is getting better, doesn't it?).
> 
> If you HAVEN'T read darkfic, let's have a quick chat about the genre. Darkfics are full of dubious consent, even abuse. This one will skirt the edges of that second option. There will be dubiously consentful sex, which you will be able to interpret either direction, your choice. There will be period-appropriate racism, sexism, all kinds of -ism. There will be prostitution and drugs and a bunch of violence, including strong corporal punishment and what looks like domestic abuse to me. It's hard to say, because the victim sure seems fine with it, but it also might be some heavy gaslighting. Because I know underage squicks so many people, Peter will be of age when the sex starts, but that doesn't mean that the characters aren't going to mess with him (and turning 18 is not a magic wand for sexual relationships to be healthy). Darkfic is fun because it's not reality and it can let you have some nervous experiences without actually being endangered. Please proceed with your comfort level. You can email me at tellmenoagainplease@gmail.com if you want to check in about specific triggers.

Peter is tucked up in the library’s window seat, wearing nothing but an undershirt and his drawers, trying to escape the heat of the hot July day, when Bucky bursts in and demands, “You seen Harley recently?”

“No,” says Peter, holding up the book. “I been reading. Is he gone _again_?”

“Every damn day this week, I’m gonna kill him,” declares Bucky blackly. “Don’t even know how he slips out, he can’t _drive_. Comes back and it’s dinner before I see him, can’t lay hands on him and shake it out of him, and then Boss has him all night doing ‘Tasha’s rounds.”

“Oh,” says Peter, but then he _twitches_.

Bucky’s eyes narrow. “You,” he growls, stalking closer, grabbing Peter’s arm and hauling him to the edge of the seat, his feet dangling over it, book gripped tight in his other hand. “You know something, and you better tell me or so help me, Angel, I will-” his hand twitches and Peter flinches. “Spill,” orders Bucky, face dark.

“I saw, that guy, from the Black Shield, wh-when we went, weeks ago, with Bessie, remember? That Johnny guy,” admits Peter. “He’s got that flash car, I seen it at the end of the drive the last five days, thought that was weird.” He points to the window. “Didn’t see Harley, though,” he admits. “Could just be a coincidence.”

“Johnny Storm?” hisses Bucky, his eyes glinting. “Oh, I’m _talking_ to Ben.” He drops Peter’s arm to run a hand through Peter’s hair roughly. “Thanks, Angel. Good eyes.” He exits just as fast as he blew in and Peter releases a long breath, picking up the book, his heart racing.

It’s not snitching, if Harley is leaving him behind while he heads out and has adventures. And to be honest, Peter’s starting to get worried, too, because when Harley gets back, he’s covered in dust and bruises and blood, so whatever he’s doing, it can’t be good news. Peter had tried talking to him about it, and gotten nowhere, been told where to stick his nose. It’s Harley’s funeral if he don’t want to take his own bodyguard with him, but Peter’s not taking any blows meant for Harley in the meantime.

He’s back deep into his book by another chapter, when Steve ambles in, cookie in hand, and perches by him on the window seat, breaking it in two and passing him half. Peter accepts the cookie with a sigh. Steve’s always popping in with a treat, and he’ll sit there until Peter’s done, _watching,_ like he expects to see Peter gain weight right before his eyes. As expected, Steve watches him eat the first few bites before asking, “Bucky said you gave him a lead on Harley?”

Peter nods, chewing.

“Hellcat tries to give you any guff about it, you direct him to me, just holler,” says Steve darkly. “Security is no kind of thing to go ducking. He knows better, can’t tell you how many times Bucky’s licked him. Thought we finally had an understanding when the Boss near killed him last time,” he mutters, mostly to himself, glaring out the window at the bottom of the drive. One of the cars is rolling out of the gate, and Peter gulps. “Boss finds out,” sighs Steve, “and you might suddenly be an only kid, Angel.”

“Just joking, Steve. Right?” asks Peter nervously, because everyone’s always saying how Harley gets beat, how the boss half-kills him, but Peter hasn’t seen it yet, hasn’t seen anything but slap downs and smacks, and whatever Tony does that leaves Harley giggling and bruised when they kick Peter down to Steve and Bucky’s bed some nights.

Steve glances over and smiles, a little tighter than his normal one, “Yeah, kid, wouldn’t be pretty, though. If you see Harley, encourage him to be smart, go to Bucky, explain things before the Boss finds out.”

Peter swallows his dry mouthful of cookie and nods. Steve leans over and asks, “Whatcha reading, Angel?”

“Darwin’s _Origin of Species_. I always wanted to, because I couldn’t see how we could come from monkeys, but Steve, everyone’s got it wrong, that’s not what he said at all,” Peter says scornfully.

Steve shakes his head, smiling. “Well, give it another half hour, come swimming with me,” he says, huskily. “Cool off some.”

Peter swallows, again, looking at the other man, and then folds the dust jacket to keep his page. “Any reason we can’t go now?” he asks hesitantly, watching Steve’s eyes crinkle.

“Nope,” says Steve, standing and grabbing him by the bicep. “Was hoping for just that distraction, could use a little time with a guy doesn’t make my blood boil. Right now, between ‘em, Harley and Buck are trying to kill me.”

Peter laughs, and lets Steve manhandle him through the house to the poolside. He knows, now, after weeks of close contact with the man, that Steve likes having someone to manhandle just a little bit. It gives Peter a thrill, something like fear, something like anticipation, every time Steve clamps onto him and moves Peter where he wants Peter to go. By the time they reach the poolside, Peter’s breathless with laughter and the effort of trying to wiggle out of Steve’s headlocks.

“Okay, Angel,” teases Steve. “We’ll get you signed up with Natasha for some wrestling and fighting practice, too, opposite Clint.”

“Oh,” remembers Peter suddenly, “did I tell you?”

“No, what?” asks Steve, undoing the buttons on his shirt.

“Natasha sent me a telegram,” says Peter, smiling broadly. “It’s my first telegram I ever got sent to me, though,” he says, when the other man is clearly waiting for more.

“Oh, yeah?” asks Steve, sliding his shirt off and draping it over one of the wicker chairs, hands fiddling with his belt, kicking off his shoes at the same time. “What’d she have to say?

“She said she missed the vatrushka and wanted to be home,” Peter tells Steve happily. 

“No-o,” says Steve, slowly, a smile spreading across his face as he drops his pants down, drapes them over the chair with his shirt. “Well, sounds like she figured out it was you.”

“Maybe,” says Peter sunnily. “I don’t mind. It’s been so long since I seen them both, I can’t wait for Clint to be back next week so I can show him what I been practicing.”

Steve chuckles and then nods at Peter, saying, “You going in like that?”

“Nah,” says Peter, stretching his arms and lifting up the undershirt he’s wearing, trying not to feel self-conscious. Steve’s body, though, is powerful and strong, built for tough work, and scarred with it. Peter feels his own leanness acutely, and resolves exactly as he did the day before, to eat more heavy food, to try to build up the mass he’s missing. Peter skims out of his drawers, because it’s just them, the gals never come down to the pool in the afternoon heat, and nobody ever seems to mind about suits when it’s just the fellas. He drops them onto the shirt on the ground.

He’s half-expecting it, so it’s not a complete surprise, when Steve charges him and swings him up, shouting, jumping them both into the pool at once. He’s half expecting it because it’s happened three times now, and every time, his heart leaps and he yelps. Steve surfaces chuckling, just like the last three times he’d tossed them both in. Peter splutters, like he did the last two times, and then turns and tries to get away, as Steve barrels at him through the water. 

It’s fun, and exciting, the chase, even though he knows it’s not a real chase. His heart is already racing from the abrupt jolt of the cool water against his skin, but it flat-out pounds as he tries to escape the oncoming juggernaut. Peter works hard to dodge around Steve’s swift strokes, pushing off from the pool walls, twirling at the last second, panting and gasping with the sheer playful ridiculousness of being chased in the cool water. There’s a million near-misses that leave him breathless before Steve finally wraps arms around him, shouting, “Gotcha!” and then dunking them both backwards under the water.

When he surfaces, Steve is floating nearby, face up, still. Peter smiles as he complains, “Got water up my nose, ya mook.” Steve tips himself so that his feet are on the bottom of the pool and wades himself closer to bob beside Peter in the deepest part of the pool. 

“Poor Angel,” he teases mournfully. “Poor baby.”

Peter rears back, affronted, and sends a tidal wave of water at Steve with a sweep of his arm, already swimming frantically away as the leading edge of it his Steve, already laughing.

~~~

They swim for long enough that the summer sun has changed position and the shadows are just beginning to lengthen. Steve calls a break to the catch and chase game, laughing. “Okay, I’ll leave off. Here, we should get out,” he says, his voice catching and going husky on the last phrase. 

Peter swims closer to the edge, where Steve is resting on his elbows, back to the wall. Steve turns to him, smiling, and then lifts Peter up out of the water, to sit on the edge. It’s like Peter weighs nothing at all, how easily Steve lifts him, sets him there. Peter feels a chill down his spine, the same shivery feeling that he gets when he’s swimming away and Steve is inches from catching him. Steve presses forward until he’s standing in between Peter’s knees, head tilted up to gaze at Peter.

Peter smiles down at him and says, “Did you bring towels?”

“Knew I forgot something,” Steve replies, snapping his finger in frustration. He frowns, and then it clears as he says, “Just have to use my shirt.” Peter nods back at him, so hyper-aware of the muscles in the other man’s shoulders that he thinks he may swallow his tongue. “Go get it, Angel?” asks Steve, in a voice gone quiet, and Peter nods again. He spends an awful lot of time nodding silently, around Steve. He pulls himself up to a standing position, and walks over to the wicker chair where Steve draped his things.

He wipes himself down quickly with the shirt, hearing the sound of water in motion behind him, the sound of Steve exiting the pool. He doesn’t turn to watch, just roughly wipes himself off and then bends to grab his clothes off the ground. A hand reaches out and takes the shirt from his hand as he’s bent, and he swallows, because Steve is very close right now, very close, as close as any of the catching he’d done, with Peter in the pool. Peter is so aware of how big Steve is, how thick the muscles of his body are, how powerful. He’s aware of Steve, but he’s not turning his head, not looking, because they’re not in the pool anymore, they’re not playing, and he’s not, he’s not _looking_. 

“Angel,” says Steve quietly, and Peter flinches, scrambling into his drawers, taking a skittish step away. “Oh,” says Steve, like something is dawning on him. A smile spreads through his voice as he says, still quiet, “Is that how it is?”

Peter shakes his head as he rolls on his undershirt, not looking back, not _looking_.

“I think it is,” says Steve, and there _is_ a laugh in the man’s voice. “And I think I know what to do about it, too. You hold still, right there. Don’t you move.” There’s the sound of the wicker, as Steve does- _something_ \- probably just putting on his clothes again. Peter holds still, swallowing something that feels a little like fear, and doesn’t turn around, doesn’t _look_.

“Okay, Angel,” says Steve, and it’s only been seconds but Peter’s skin is so tight, his muscles so tired from all the activity, fighting the buoyancy of the water for the last hour. “You gonna come with me or you need me to make sure you do?”

 _Oh, God._ Peter’s eyes shut in prayer, cheeks flushing. Steve’s noticed, then, noticed that sometimes with Peter, it’s easier, sometimes it’s easier for Peter if Harley or the Boss or Bucky or- or Steve, if they just, they just make him do the things they want, the things they think he wants, too. Steve’s noticed. Peter shakes his head, because he doesn’t know how to answer that question. 

There’s a long moment, while the heat of the afternoon bakes back into them, before Steve sighs, and steps closer. Steve’s hands spin him around, slowly, until he’s facing the man. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t open his eyes, and he can hear the gentle concern as the other man says, “No one’s gonna hurt you here, Peter Stark. Least of all me.”

Peter heaves a deep breath and looks up, looks up in the blue eyes that are sometimes stern and sometimes sweet, the blue eyes that shone with pride for his first target practice with Clint and darkened with desire in the matron’s office on that very first day. Steve looks back at him, smile on his lips and says, “I ain’t inviting you to the gallows, Angel. Far from it. You could look it, a little.”

Peter takes a deep breath. “Yes, sir,” he says miserably. “I- I do want-” he swallows.

“You want me to take care of you,” prompts Steve, the small smile spreading just a little wider. “It’s okay to say that, Angel. We don’t mind, as a rule, around here. You get to feeling like you could use some care, well, you got a list of people don’t mind being asked, and I’m on it.”

Peter feels his breath come faster, and he says, “Yes, sir.”

“I like that,” says Steve lightly, encouraging. “I like that, nice and respectful. You come on upstairs with me, now. You let me take some care, Angel.” His eyes are darkening, word by word, and his hands, still resting on Peter’s arms, rub small circles.

Peter swallows, feeling himself lean forward, and tells him, “Yes, sir.”

Steve’s face breaks out into a full smile, then, and he says, “Okay, Angel, you gonna follow? You need me to haul?”

Peter shakes his head and mutters, “I can follow.”

Steve chuckles as he turns, wet shirt draped over a forearm, and leads the way inside. They climb the stairs in silence, Peter a half-step behind Steve, his heart hammering. There’s no one in the family hallway as Steve leads the way to his room, the room he shares with Bucky, _their_ room. He closes the door and tosses the shirt carelessly over the back of a chair. 

“Okay, Angel,” he says, quietly, calmly. “Gonna tell me about it- what’s in that head of yours right now, what’s got you so skittish- or am I gonna feel it out?”

Peter bites his lip, and then shakes his head. He doesn’t even know if there are words for everything he’s feeling, but even if there are, he’s not sure saying them is a good thing.

“Started in the pool,” muses Steve, his hands rising to skim down Peter’s arms, tickle their way under the shirt, and start lifting it off. Peter raises his arms and assists, making a small noise of agreement. “Yeah, I thought so,” says Steve easily, tossing the undershirt on the chair, resting his hands on Peter’s hips.

Peter is horribly conscious of the difference between their bodies in this moment, Steve’s huge hands, battered and scarred, resting on Peter’s slim hips. His forearms are huge, Peter realizes, almost double the size of Peter’s, and that thought makes him swallow. Steve runs his hands slowly up Peter’s side and Peter can feel the trembling begin. He bites his lip, trying to hold it off, hold it back. 

“Yeah, gets me worked up just a bit, too, chasing you around, touching you, catching you,” murmurs Steve fiercely, and Peter gaps, and feels his dick twitch. “Mm,” hums Steve, pulling Peter just an inch closer, taking a step closer himself. “You like it that much, huh, Angel, like me catching you that much?”

Peter shakes his head, and then, in the spirit of being good, being good for Steve, who doesn’t deserve lies, he nods it.

“Well, that’s nice,” says Steve, smile threaded through his voice, “Fits me nice, I sure do like catching you.”

Peter slants him up a glance, then, and sees only Steve, his face open, his eyes kind. He rolls his eyes a little and Steve’s smile expands. “Oh, you think sassing me on that point’s smart?” he teases, shaking Peter with his firm grip on Peter’s sides. Peter smiles then, and the smile somehow makes it so he can assure the other man, “Never smart to sass you, Steve.”

“That’s right, it’s not,” agrees Steve, eyes darkening just a touch, just enough that Peter’s breath catches. “Always better to be respectful. I like you respectful, Angel. Don’t get much of it out of the rest of them, have to wrestle them into it, but you came this way, and I like it, want to see more of it.” His hands press Peter into taking a step backwards, towards the bed, and Peter lets himself be guided. “Like to hear you say ‘sir,’ in that quiet way you got.” He guides Peter around the brass foot, until they’re standing beside the mattress. 

“You hear Harley beg, call me Captain?” he demands suddenly, and Peter’s mind races back to the morning, when- the morning before church, after he’d cried and Steve had held him all night, held the nightmares and dark thoughts at bay.

Peter’s lips part and he answers, voice low, “Yes, sir.” He remembers Harley’s frantic begging and sudden keening yowls. He remembers Steve’s length, pressed against his backside, rubbing, and the first taste of three men in his mouth. First but not last, Harley’d been insistent he learn how to taste and swallow in those first few weeks after his first visit to Holy Trinity. There’d been… a lot of lessons, in tasting in and swallowing, until this past week, when Harley all but disappeared most days.

“Yeah, Harley likes being made to call me Captain, too, and so does Bucky,” Steve tells Peter quietly, drawing Peter’s eyes up to him, and his thoughts away from worries about Harley. Plenty enough to worry about here, with the way that Steve makes his breathing draw strangely, makes him feel dizzy as he looks up at the other man. 

“Bucky about likes it as much as a man can, calling me his Captain, saying sir, being real nice and respectful just for me,” Steve tells him slowly, and Peter swallows, because he’s seen that, yes. He’s seen that with his own eyes. Steve continues, in that slow, measured tone, his eyes never leaving Peter’s face, “Says he likes I’m the only one he’s ever tamed for, wild thing he is. You want that, too, Peter Stark? Want to be nice and respectful for me, today?”

“Yes, sir,” whispers Peter, his heart hammering in his chest, face burning just a little because now Steve _knows_. He's said it, and now the man knows it's not just Harley and Bucky who like it, it's him, too. He keeps giving these people in this house all these words, these things they can know about him, now, shameful things, he thinks, although what's shameful about liking to be respectful, he's not quite sure. With the fire that it builds in his guts, though, it's not very angelic.

Steve hums, “Mm,” and then says, huskily, “Well, then, Angel, you drop them drawers, right here, and get yourself up on the bed.”

“Yes, sir,” says Peter, breath catching, and he hooks his thumbs under his waistband, sliding them off, and hitching himself up to sit on the bed.

Steve knocks his knees apart with a casual hand, steps in between them, and says, “That’s nice. Like to look at you. Gonna draw you, one of these days. More’n’one, I think on it. So slim, still too skinny,” he says, fingers trailing over Peter’s chest. 

Peter shakes his head, because he _knows_ , and he says, “Trying, sir, filling out some.”

“I see it, Angel, I see you trying, and you are filling out some, I seen that too,” Steve reassures him, hands rising to rest on his own waistband. “I just notice the form, that’s all, part of liking to draw is liking the shapes of things, of people. I see the shape you will be, with a little more care, a few more good meals, and I just want to see it in front of me, that’s all. Shape you’re in isn’t bad,” he says, and Peter gasps, because that’s the first time he’s heard anything like that in this house, all everyone ever talks about is how he’s too skinny, needs fattening. “I like it, too. Just think you don’t quite look happy yet, don’t quite have a happy weight to ya yet.” 

He lifts Peter’s hands, presses them to his own sides, and says, huskily, “You like my shape, kid?”

“Y-yes, sir,” stutters Peter, dropping his eyes to his hands on Steve’s hips.

“You go on, then, you can touch it some, notice you don’t like to be greedy, but I won’t mind it now, you go on.” He stands still, while Peter’s fingers tentatively explore the dips and grooves of the muscles of his torso. There’s so many, and they’re so hard, so much bigger than Peter’s own, thinks Peter in something like awe. What must it feel like to be so strong, so sure, able to lift somebody like Peter like it’s nothing to you? After a long moment, his hands tracing the contours in front of him, he realizes what he’s been doing, and he lets his hands falter a moment, draw back.

Steve’s hand gather them up again, hold them, as he says, “That was real nice, real respectful, I like how you wasn’t greedy about it, Angel. Gonna teach you all kinds of nice ways to touch me, I promise you, but that was nice, I liked it. You can always touch me just like that, when we’re here.”

Peter bites his lip and nods. “Oh, I like those soft words you were using earlier,” chides Steve, “thought you said you wanted to use ‘em with me.”

“Yes, sir,” chokes Peter.

“Yeah, just like that,” agrees Steve. “You and Harley, two sides of one coin. You begging to give ‘em up and Harley needing to be fought to draw them outta him. Two sides of the same coin. Mr. Stark’s a lucky man.” Peter blinks, because, because Mr. Stark’s not in this room, with them, and Steve chuckles as he continues, “And I guess I’m just as lucky he likes to share.” His hands fall to the button at his waistband, and he pops it out, popping the next one and sliding the pants and drawers down. Peter’s watching, just a little, not trying to be disrespectful, and his lips part when he realizes Steve’s _affected_ by all this, too, affected by Peter’s hands the way Peter is by Steve’s body.

“Ah, you like that, but you don’t know it yet,” chuckles Steve. “‘S okay. I know good little angels don’t know their way down that wicked path yet, I won’t expect anything, Angel, I promise.”

“Harley, Harley and me, and Mr. Stark, we-” stammers Peter, because he does know _some_ , some of the way down this path he knows. It’s just hard to put it in respectful words when Harley’s wicked voice is the only thing Peter can hear right now, over the roar of his blood. “I know how to kiss,” he offers helplessly. “And lick.”

Steve gives a sharp intake of breath. “Do you, now, Angel? Have you been learning that fast?”

Peter nods and tilts his head, offering Steve a wry smile, “I bunk in with Harley. He’s a quick teacher.”

Steve smiles down, reaching out with a gentle hand to trace down Peter’s cheek, his eyes following the line his fingers travel. “I just bet he is,” he murmurs. “I just bet he’s told you all kinds of things he wants to teach you.”

Peter’s jaw drops, just a little, just enough, in case Steve wants to do what Bucky always does, what Tony likes to do, and run his thumb into Peter’s mouth. “Taught you that,” acknowledges Steve, rubbing his fingertips across Peter’s mouth. “Or maybe that just came with you, you opened up so nice for me, that first kiss. You gonna open again, Angel?”

Peter looks up at him, feeling dazed, and says, “Yes, sir.”

“Good Angel,” praises Steve, leaning down, shifting, sliding to sit on the bed beside Peter. He hauls Peter over his lap, awkwardly at first, but then, as Steve shifts and Peter settles, it’s nice and neat, his arms around Steve’s neck, straddling him. “I like this body of yours,” Steve repeats. “It ain’t quite yet a man’s body, is it, Angel, not like mine, not like Bucky’s. Ain’t nothing hard about it, yet. Just a little coltish, yet, all them angles you got to fill out yet.” His hands run across Peter’s back, ghosting over the skin at his sides, slipping up to run down his shoulders as he talks. “Yeah, don’t know what it makes me, that I like it, but I do,” he says, and then he leans forward and places a kiss right at the base of Peter’s neck, where it meets his shoulder. Peter gasps, and Steve sucks, his tongue flicking the skin. Peter moans.

“Thought you’d like that,” mumbles Steve into Peter’s skin. “Figured you would, gotta be careful, pale skin like yours, but I can give you a little more, you want some.”

“Yes, sir,” hisses Peter, and Steve grunts, pulling Peter back to him, licking lewdly along Peter’s skin before clamping on again, shifting and sliding his mouth up Peter’s neck, down the other side, while Peter whines and moans and hisses at him.

“Mm,” hums Steve, pulling back, eyes twinkling. “A man does something you like, little boy, you oughta thank him, don’t you think?”

“Oh,” says Peter stupidly, and then, quickly, “Thank you, sir.”

“Good Angel,” praises Steve again. “You ain’t so little, though, are you, not some kid, just kinda caught, aren’t you? Right here,” and his hand touches Peter’s stomach, presses flat on the soft flesh there, before touching his own, rock hard with muscle, “between boy and man. I like it,” he says, when Peter flushes. “Don’t know what it makes me, but I like it.”

“I-” hesitates Peter, ducking his head, but the other man is talking and he can talk, too, that’s what men do, they talk, “I like it, too, that you’re-” he swallows “-that you look like you do.” He runs a cautious finger across Steve’s shoulders and is surprised to see the man close his eyes, mouth dropping open, skin shivering under Peter’s touch.

“Oh, Angel,” grunts Steve. “You feel me twitchin for you?” And Peter startles, because he _does_ , Steve’s dick is twitching between them. “You be careful,” Steve warns him. “What you start.”

“Yes, sir,” whispers Peter, and then, thinking of all the things he knows now, that he didn’t know months ago, he asks, “Do you, do you like licks? I can’t, I can’t do what Harley can do, he ain’t taught me yet, but, but I can lick.”

Steve lifts his hands to cup Peter’s face, eyes piercing and sharp. “I said ‘be careful what you start,’ not ‘go start forest fires,’ Angel.”

Peter nods and says, “Yes, sir, but do you like licks?”

Steve’s gaze drops to Peter’s mouth and he says, “This afternoon I was going to take care of you, Angel. You’re the one needed it.”

Peter swallows. “How- how were you gonna-”

“Like this,” says Steve, bringing one hand between them, wrapping it around Peter, around his own twitching dick and sliding the hand up and down. His hands are so big, so rough, compared to Peter’s, and Peter is gasping after the first couple. “You’re so smooth, Angel, can’t get over that Bucky does that for you every day, can’t get over that the Boss asked him for it,” Steve tells him, and his breathing is fine, Peter notices, over the wet sounds of his own gasps.

“N-not every day,” Peter corrects him, reminding him of what he probably already knows. “S-sometimes, too busy.”

“Too busy to touch up on you?” scoffs Steve. “I’ll have words with him, that’s just foolery.”

There’s nothing but the sound of Peter’s gasps for a few long moments and then Steve hisses and says, “Oil. That’s what this needs.” He reaches out an arm and fumbles for the drawer of the side table, pulling out a glass bottle. He lets go of them, and uncaps the bottle with practiced ease, pouring out a measure of oil into his hands and setting the bottle on the side table again. “Can’t wait to use this for its intended purpose,” he muses, and then tilts his chin to look at Peter and say pointedly, “In you, getting you ready to take me.” Peter’s eyes go wide, because he doesn’t, Harley says that, too, says he can’t wait to get inside Peter, but he didn’t know oil was part of that, Harley never mentions _oil_.

Steve rubs both of his hands in the oil and then orders, “Wrap them arms around my neck, you’re going to want to hold on” and then, “Here, shift your hips a little.” He wraps his hands around the both of them again, this time more flush, more equitable, and they both grunt with his first long pull up. 

“There’s my angel,” croons Steve, as Peter starts to shake, his hips twitching forward, mouth gasping wet breaths. “Now you got the idea. Let me take care of it, take care of us. You just let it happen, okay, Angel?”

Peter tells him, “Yes, sir,” in a fevered tone of voice. 

“Good Angel, I like that, nice and respectful,” breathes Steve. Peter leans his forehead closer, overcome with the sensation of Steve’s hands, their tight grip, the slick slide of them, the feel of Steve’s thick dick next to his slim one. Steve kisses his forehead and whispers, “You just let me take care.” Peter nods, because he will, he will, this feels just like what he wanted, what he needed, at the pool.

“Ah,” gasps Steve, kissing his forehead again. “Not, fuck, not sure, all that chasing I did with you got me revved, Peter, under my skin, and so I’m not sure, not sure if I can outlast you. But if I do,” and they both grunt, as he applies just a little more pressure with his hand. “If I do last longer, want you to try for some of them kitten licks you were talking about.”

“Yes, sir,” Peter promises him, and if it sounds adoring, the man’s hands are wrapped around his dick, pulling out sensations and feelings that wrap around his spine and his soul, he’s _allowed_ a little adoration.

“Ah,” gasps Steve again, and then, “Fuck.” His hands move into a slightly faster rhythm, less smooth, more jerks.

Peter wholeheartedly agrees, but he has to save the oxygen he takes in with every gasp for all the places in his body that are suddenly on fire and starved for fuel. His hips are jerking, just a little, twitching, he can’t hold them still, and his hands clutch at Steve’s shoulders, only to shift and clutch at his back. He hisses, and Steve says, “Go ahead and whine some, you need to, Angel. Like to hear it, like to hear you give voice to some of what you’re feeling.”

Peter doesn’t know what that means but he doesn’t try so hard to be quiet, and a few low moans slip out. Steve kisses his forehead during each one, peppering his temple line with sweet soft impressions of his lips. “Just like that, Angel, just like that, for me,” Steve mutters. The rhythm speeds up again, impossibly, and Peter catches himself actually giving a whine but doesn’t stop himself. It’s fine. Steve wants to hear him, he doesn’t have to be quiet. “S-sir,” he says, as his balls jump and he knows that feeling now, knows that’s the pull, the pull just before- “s-sir,” he hisses, urgently.

“Come on, then, Angel, spill,” orders Steve, and Peter looks up into his eyes and gasps at the sharp intent look he finds there. It distracts him for a heartbeat, which means the sudden tip over from wanting and needing to _spilling_ is a shock. Steve watches him through all of it, and Peter’s never felt so exposed, knowing that Steve likes the shape of him, notices the shapes of things, and thinks about whether he likes them. He wants Steve to like the shape of this, too, this moment, because Peter likes it, likes Steve’s hands on them both.

Steve bucks up, sudden, and groans, eyes fluttering for only a second, and then there’s more wet warmth sliding in between Steve’s fingers, down Peter’s dick, a lot more. Steve chuckles, then, kissing Peter’s forehead, and says, “Well, there go them kitten licks. Have to try for ‘em another time.” Peter is still struggling with his breathing, but he smiles at Steve and says, “You gonna make me taste, sir?”

Steve sucks in a breath and then laughs and says, “Nah, you don’t gag on the taste anymore, do you? Harley said you’re all done with that, now.”

Peter shakes his head and says, a little resentment for Harley’s big mouth coloring his tone, “No, sir, don’t gag anymore.”

“Oh,” laughs Steve, “you’ll still gag, you ain’t learned that trick yet, Angel. That’s one needs a lot of practicing. But not today, I’m spent.” He strokes Peter’s dick gently, then, and Peter hisses. “No,” he says quietly, the smallest warning in his tone “You just let me. I ain’t trying to get you hot up. Just enjoying what I can.”

Peter stills and says, “Yes, sir,” on an exhale of air.

Steve kisses his forehead, fingers stroking up and down Peter’s softening dick, and praises, “Good Angel. That’s nice. Let me touch, just settle some. Just let me take care.”

Peter hisses but settles, rests his forehead on Steve’s shoulder, lets the other man just touch him, touch them both, until some internal limit has been reached and he says, “Okay, Angel. You hop down, we’ll go clean us up in the bathroom. You feeling steady?”

Peter bites his lip and nods, and then, because Steve sure seems to like it, he says, “Yes, sir.”

Steve chuckles, “You got my number, now. Hop to it.” 

Peter slides off of him and leads the way to the bathroom, feeling fairly steady on his legs, but hungry. His stomach growls and Steve laughs, grabbing for cloths to wipe them down. 

“Tell you what, Angel,” says Steve. “You go lay out on the couch, keep your stitches off, stretch out under the fan and rest. I’ll run, get us some cookies and cold milk, see if the chef’s’ll let me have some chilled berries. We’ll have ourselves a little sweet picnic up here, what’d’ya say?”

Peter smiles eagerly up at him and replies, “Oh, please, Steve?”

“Done,” declares Steve. “Go stretch out. I’ll be back.” He slips on the pants and and undershirt and strides out of the room before Peter is even fully stretched out on the couch, happy and feeling settled, calm.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s just after lunch the next day when Bucky bursts into the library with a mountain of a man Peter’s never seen before. He shoves Peter off the window seat with a growled, “Shift, Angel, go to a couch,” and then says, “Right there, Angel says he’s been watching your Johnny pull up regular the last week.”

The other man grunts and leans in, rubbing his chin. “Well, let’s go park ourselves, get ready to tail ‘em, find out what they’re doing that they don’t want witnesses.”

“I’m coming,” announces Steve, entering the room. “Need two sets of eyes and a driver, this kinda job.”

“Could use you, make sure I don’t strangle him,” admits Bucky.

“Yeah, figured that, too,” chuckles Steve grimly. “Hiya, Ben.”

“Cap,” says the other man with a nod.

“How you gonna clear us both leaving with the boss?” asks Bucky.

“Already told him we was taking a car, gonna take Harley and Angel to town for a bit,” grins Steve.

“Not taking any chances I’d say no, huh?” Bucky replies, eyes twinkling.

Steve’s grin just widens.

“Where you planning to stash Angel?” asks Bucky, eyeing Peter in consideration.

“He can come along,” says Steve. Peter sighs a little, on the inside where no one can hear him, because Pepper had just that morning handed him the Agatha Christie book the papers were all gabbing about and he was planning to treat himself. “Got enough of us to handle most things, and he can keep the car running if we think it might get hot. But knowing them two, it’ll be puppy tricks, not big dog fights. They never seem to find more than mischief no matter how hard they look.”

Bucky and Ben look at each other and then shrug, as one. “Yeah, all right,” says Bucky, and then he points a finger at Peter. “You _listen_ and _stay smart_ , I ain’t chasing down two dummies in one day without tanning both of ‘em, you hear me?”

Peter nods, mouth dry.

“He looks like a good kid,” Ben comments.

“He is,” returns Bucky. “And he’s gonna stay that way,” he adds, with another dark look at Peter.

Peter nods and says, “Yes, sir.”

Steve runs a hand through his hair, ruffling, and then says, “Let’s hustle.”

They walk out to the carriage house, and Bucky slides into the driver’s seat on the banged-up Model T. He wheels the car around to the back exit, and then parks it on the street, halfway up the block. They sit, in the stifling heat, windows rolled down, and sweat, waiting for Harley to be a damn fool, thinks Peter.

“Aww, now, Angel, no pouting,” soothes Steve. “We’ll make it up to ya. Real nice of you to try to help us help Harley.”

Peter shakes his head and mumbles, “Not pouting, Cap,” with a glance toward Ben, in the front seat beside Bucky.

“Oh, just sticking your lip out to catch the breeze?” teases Steve.

“I,” grumbles Peter, “had _plans_.”

“Oh?” asks Bucky from the front seat, shifting. “What kinda plans, Angel?”

“Was gonna read a book Pepper got for me, down by the pool, dip my feet,” answers Peter regretfully. “But now Harley’s messing with them, again. He always messes up my plans.”

Steve and Bucky chuckle. After a minute, Ben joins in. “Yeah,” Ben grunts, “Sounds like Johnny, too. Sure wish Richards would take an interest other than tellin’ me to ride herd.”

Bucky and Ben share a look between them. The car falls silent again. Peter sits in the backseat with Steve, trying not to touch any part of the man, and swelters.

Finally, Johnny’s flash car flies past and Bucky eases the Model T onto the road behind it. 

“He’s in there,” says Steve, steely.

“Yup,” say Ben and Bucky in unison, with voices like flint. Bucky’s hands are confident on the wheel and Peter thinks that maybe he could ask Bucky to teach him how to drive next week, and maybe Bucky would say yes, because Peter’s not the one sneaking out, messing up everyone’s plans.

“You see them turn right?” asks Bucky, his voice confused. “What’s right?”

“Nothing,” insists Ben. “They leaving the city? What for?”

“Ah, hell, the _train_ ,” hisses Bucky.

“Floor it?” offers Ben, but his tone isn’t very hopeful.

“They made it, no, we never would, maybe in the Bentley, not this hunk o’ junk,” groans Bucky, slapping the wheel as the train whistles.

“Well, hell,” says Steve, expressively.

“Can’t take the Bentley, sticks out like a damn peacock in a flock of chickens,” mutters Bucky. “They’d see it and know it was us waiting for ‘em. Catches the eye.”

“Mm,” hums Ben, considering the problem. “Well, I already tanned Johnny once, could try it again, see if the mischief shakes out.” Peter’s jaw drops. Johnny is a grown man, not like him and Harley, he’s probably twenty-five or twenty-six years old! “Hardest part is catching him, right now, but he stumbles in regular, could try for five, six A.M.”

“Well, here, we’ll drive you back to your flop,” offers Bucky. “Steve, you think of a story for why Harley’s not with us, we get home, in case the Boss notices.”

“Stopped to chat up a dame,” chuckles Steve, elbowing Peter. Peter smiles up at him, because that does sound like Harley. “We didn’t want to wait, seemed like they knew each other somehow, dropped ‘em off at one of our clubs where we knew he’d be watched. Which one’s got the rooms he likes? Little Blessings?”

“What a tomcat,” laughs Ben.

“Yeah, he’s always prowling, our Hellcat,” says Bucky proudly, guiding the car into the greater traffic of the highway. “Can’t help but think, knowing Johnny, they found themselves a new cat-house out in the weeds.”

“Might could be true, but his clothes are coming back dusty, and it’s a rough cat-house, if so, Johnny comes home flat busted up most days,” mutters Ben.

Bucky and Steve grunt agreement. The drive to the Richard Manse is silent with resounding resentment for the 1:15 to D.C.

~~~

“Well, wasted trip,” grunts Ben, exiting the car and leaning back in through the window, “but I don’t mind the gas money. Good to see ya, Buck, Steve. Nice t’meet ya, Angel. You keep outta trouble, don’t go chasing off after these two.”

“Can’t anyway,” sighs Peter back at him. “Harley said t’keep outta it.”

Bucky lifts an acknowledging hand to Ben, who waves back and walks off.

It’s another hot, dusty drive back to the Stark Mansion, but no one notices them pull in up the back drive, and no one notices them slip in. Peter with his book, in his undershirt and drawers, feet dipped into the cool of the pool, happens in short order. He sighs, satisfied, and loses himself in Essex, England, chasing after a strychnine murderer.

“You seen Harley?” asks Happy at one point, walking through.

“No,” says Peter, not even looking up from his book. “Not since we got back.”

“Well, what the hell,” hisses Happy. Peter doesn’t look up, deliberately and resentfully. Harley’s already wrecked most of Peter’s day, he’s not taking this, too. Happy can just buzz off, leave Peter alone. After a long minute, Happy turns on his heel and is gone. _Good_.

~~~

That night, Peter sits on the couch after dinner and watches Harley dig through the closet, looking for just the right suit for the night. He sighs, and Harley looks over and says, “Okay, what gives, baby, you’re awful moody.”

“Yeah, I wonder why,” spits Peter, and then bites his lip as Harley rips the suit he’s holding off of the rack and bounds over to throw himself into a crouch in front of Peter.

Harley stares into Peter’s face for a long minute and then breaks into a grin, “Aww, you missing me, Angel? Missing all them games we was starting to play?”

Peter shifts, uncomfortable, and looks away, towards the bathroom. “No,” he mutters. “Just don’t like you sneaking around. Makes everyone jumpy, hot under the collar. Bucky’s like to explode, you look at him wrong.”

“Well, it’s good for ‘em,” chuckles Harley, holding up a hand to Peter’s cheek, sliding it down, resting his thumb on Peter’s lips, his eyes following the motion before flicking up to grin at Peter. “Told you, can’t let ‘em think they can boss you around too much. Can’t let ‘em think they got you on a leash.”

Peter snorts. “Nobody’s got me on a leash, but they’re gonna start with you, Harley, you keep sneaking off like this.”

Harley’s smile broadens. “You know what I think, Angel? I think you miss me.”

Peter shakes his head, a quick denial, feeling Harley’s thumb slide across his lips with the motion.

“Yeah,” says Harley, leaning in, smiling triumphantly. “You do. You feeling jealous of my time, you _miss_ me, Angel. Want to hear you say it.” His other hand lifts, presses Peter back into the couch, gently but firmly. Peter looks up at Harley and squares his jaw, shaking his head. “Don’t,” he says warningly.

“Or what?” teases Harley, sliding his left knee up on the couch, beside Peter’s hip. “Or you’re gonna do what, Angel? What you gonna do, when you’re missing me so much, and I’m right here?”

“D-didn’t,” Peter tells him, _damn_ that stutter. “Didn’t miss you.”

“Did,” insists Harley, bringing up his other knee, settling onto Peter’s lap and sliding his hands down, grabbing Peter’s wrists, crossing them, and pressing them against his chest. Peter struggles a little, but he knows it’s no use before he even starts. Harley does this all the time- even if Peter manages to free his hands, Harley’ll catch them right back up again. Easier just to let him do it. 

“Did miss me,” Harley prompts Peter. “Wanna hear you say it.” He’s grinning broadly now, and Peter can feel an answering smile twitch his own lips, although he tries to suppress it sternly.

“Won’t,” Peter informs him, looking up. 

Harley’s smirk twists his lips as he leans in until his lips are hovering just above Peter’s. He whispers, “Will, too.”

“Won’t,” whispers Peter back at him, stubbornly.

“Will,” whispers Harley, and then, like it’s inevitable, he presses his lips to Peter’s and begins kissing him.

Like all of Harley’s kisses, it’s a work of art and craftsmanship. His tongue darts and flicks and rubs, and within moments Peter is shifting up against him, pressing up, moaning a little because Harley’s _tongue_. Harley chuckles into the kiss for a second, before drawing back and teasing, “Your lips don’t lie, Angel, don’t you lie to me, tell me you missed me, I know it.”

Peter shakes his head, gasping a little, and Harley rolls his eyes as he dips back to collect Peter’s lips in another long kiss. When he lets Peter breathe again, he warns, “Don’t like you lying to me, Angel, sets a real bad precedent, don’t make me get _harsh_ with you.” His eyes are playful as he presses Peter’s arms harder into his chest and chides, “Tell me the truth, you miss me?”

And, okay, Peter can’t actually- denying it is stupid at this point, he’s gasping and half-hard. “Maybe,” he concedes, lips twitching in a smile.

Harley crows and says, “I knew it! I knew you did! All them pouting looks, all them sighs, you was just missing our fun games. Well, Angel, we’ll start up again after next week, promise, I won’t leave you hanging, your afternoons’ll be mine again.”

Peter shakes his head, trying to deny that he’s missed being messed with, trying to think of how to explain what he misses and what he don’t miss when he’s barely conceding he _might_ miss some of it. “I didn’t miss that, though,” he protests. “Didn’t miss you messing with me. Just, just-”

“Oh, you did, though, listen to you,” hoots Harley. “Didn’t miss me messing with you, Angel, you was made for me to mess with you.” He tilts his head and leans in, kissing Peter faster and wilder. “Just be patient, baby,” Harley chuckles into the kiss. “One more week, I’ll be yours again, won’t be able to keep my hands offa you, promise.”

Peter groans because he gave Harley an inch and now he knows, he _knows_ , Harley is gonna take a mile.

Harley releases him after a few more long moments, and then sighs. “Tony’ll be ready soon, gotta get myself suited up for the night strut, or I’d start making it up to you right now, Angel.”

“Harley,” says Peter slowly, as the other man releases him and stands. There’s something in his tone that makes Harley stand still, listen, head tilted. “I’m _worried_. You're being safe, right? Ain’t safe, without Bucky or Steve, is all.”

“Aww, Angel, that’s sweet, you worrying about me,” says Harley, and he turns back, cupping Peter’s cheek and smiling, eyes alight but not teasing. “I like that, you sitting here worrying about me, staying home, thinking about me. That’s real sweet. But don’t fret too much, I don’t go anywhere I’d get into trouble. Just need a little fresh air,” he chuckles.

“Only,” presses Peter, because he’s got the man’s attention, his full attention, without any of the teasing that usually accompanies it. “Only you come home a little busted, you’re _limping_ today.”

“Yeah, landed wrong when I jumped off,” agrees Harley, easily and mysteriously. “Be healed up by Friday. Don’t you worry, Angel. A few bumps and jolts won’t make my seams split.” He rubs Peter’s cheek with his thumb and says, “You just sit tight, Angel. It’ll all be over next week, and I’ll be back home playin’ games with you.”

Peter shakes his head, because he doesn’t care about the games. He cares about Harley, coming home with bruises and cuts, limping. He cares about Bucky, stalking around like a thunderstorm waiting to strike. 

“Aww, now, don’t pout,” chuckles Harley, patting his cheek and then leaning back, sliding off his suspenders and reaching for the new suit. “I gotta go do rounds with the Boss in a few and I can’t be distracted thinking of them lips, pouting back at home.”

Peter rolls his eyes and exhales a long breath, feeling exasperated. “Well, you get yourself killed, I won’t miss you,” he threatens.

Harley laughs at that, sliding into the striped pants. “Angel, you say the nicest things, can’t lie for trying, the truth rings out clear as day. You would, too, big ol’ crocodile tears at my funeral.”

“Wouldn’t,” insists Peter, but his lips twitch.

“Would, too, best widow a man could ask for,” teases Harley, fingers flying with the buttonhook, efficiently buttoning the spats over his black shoes.

“I ain’t,” says Peter clearly and distinctly, “gonna be your widow. I ain’t your _wife_.”

“What?” smirks Harley, “And you sitting at home, worrying about me, while I go out and earn the dough? Comin’ home, you give up them sweet kisses, just like a real angel, let me do what I want. What do you think that _makes_ you, Angel?”

“Not your wife,” grits Peter, flushing, staring at Harley’s fingers as they strap the spat under and over his second shoe, fingers flying with the buttonhook, never fumbling, as efficient as Mr. Stark.

“Aww, now, Angel,” says Harley, finishing the second spat and gliding back over to Peter, lifting Peter’s chin with firm hands wrapped around his jaw, forcing it up when Peter resists. “Let’s get this clear between us,” he says, voice teasing and smile wicked, as Peter stares up at him, wide eyed, lips parted, “after Tony takes his, ain’t gonna be you sliding into me, sweetheart.” Peter gasps a little, shocked at the _image_ that burns through his mind. “Gonna be real clear, then, who’s the wife around here. Bet you give it up to me so sweet I don’t even think about missing Natasha for a whole week.”

Peter stares up at him, hanging in his hands, gasping, and Harley chuckles down at him, teasing. “Yeah, I see what that does to you. You just sit home, darling, and think about _that_ , ‘stead of worrying about me.”

Peter glowers up at him. “Aww, now, baby,” laughs Harley. “Get adjusted to the idea. Ain’t gonna let you have any say in it, anyway.”

Peter crosses his arms, just so he doesn’t reach out, give himself away, and Harley snorts a laugh. “You are the worst liar in the history of lyin’,” he informs Peter, slipping on the tailored blue striped vest, twitching it into place, fast fingers flying on the buttons. It fits him tight, like the pants do, too, and Peter loves this part of the night, Harley and Mr. Stark getting ready. Bucky and Steve, when they go with, they dress the same as they do during the day, they’re on the job, but Mr. Stark is an absolute _sheik_ and Harley likes his glad rags, too, he’s an absolute flaming youth. Harley clips on a pocket watch, tucks it in the pocket, slips the noose over his head and tightens it. He walks to the dresser and picks out a collar bar, slips it on, and of course it’s flashy, diamonds winking out from either side of the deep red of the tie. He slides the tie under the vest, shaking his head, and murmurs huskily, “You watching, Angel, watching me get all peacock’d up, watching your man get ready to prowl around a bit?”

Peter shivers at that ‘your man’ and wants to protest, because whatever Harley says when he’s teasing and does to him when he’s playing, Peter’s _not his wife_ , for God’s sake. He wants to protest, but he can’t, because Harley slips on his coat, catching Peter’s eye for a long, dark look. “Look at you,” croons Harley softly. “Sitting there, just your pants and undershirt, why, you even got barefeet for me, Angel. You gonna stay in, baby, and wait for me, let me prowl around a little, come home hot and ready. You like me that way, I know it, like me just a little sotted, a little sloppy, all hot up and ready.”

Peter’s lips are parted, he knows that, but he can’t close them, he needs that extra air as Harley stalks forward, looking like a million, eyes dark, smile quirking his lips with all kinds of _ideas_ , Peter’s sure of it. “Yeah, baby,” says Harley, and then he lifts Peter up by one finger under Peter’s chin, guiding him up to stand, resting his hands just above Peter’s waistband, slipping his fingers just below it. “Just you wait. Let me come home, twitch them curtains aside, see you lying there so soft and sweet, every night, Angel, so soft and sweet. Notice you don’t even wear a shirt, it’s too hot these days, Angel. Keep waiting for the day you decide it’s too hot for drawers, I know it’s coming.”

Peter can hear his own breathing loud in his ears, just a little ragged, as Harley continues, eyes soft and serious, lips twitching, “Sweet Angel, laying there, most nights I can’t bring myself to wake you up, do what I want. Some nights Tony needs me in the worst way,” and his smile is wicked, “And then I got a job to do, work’s never done those nights.” Peter nods, he’s heard them, or been kicked down to Steve and Bucky’s. He knows, it’s not even _most_ nights, but when it happens, there’s no sleeping through it.

“But tonight,” says Harley, lifting a hand to tuck Peter’s hair behind his ears, slowly, so slowly Peter almost tosses his head at how _slow_ the hand moves. “Tonight, Angel, if Tony don’t need me, I’ll remember how you’re _missing_ me, Angel. How you said you was missing me, how you’re needing me. I’ll remember,” he whispers, tilting his head. “I’ll come home to you, and I’ll remember,” he repeats himself, and then he presses his lips to Peter’s in a long, chaste kiss, just his lips against Peter’s.

Peter gasps and pulls back, says, “I ain’t your _wife_ , Harley.”

Harley laughs and slaps Peter’s backside with one hand, which makes Peter jump and glare at him. “You go ahead and think that, brother,” laughs Harley. “I know the score.”

Peter glowers and throws himself back down onto the couch, away from Harley and Harley’s ridiculous _ideas_.

“I look good?” asks Harley, holding his arms out for inspection.

Peter rolls his eyes.

“Hey, Angel, you need me to give you something to pout about, I will, I got enough time yet to do it,” warns Harley, eyes flashing with humor. “ _Answer_ me. I look good?”

Peter nods, and Harley laughs. “Good Angel, I could see it in your eyes, when I slipped on that vest, knew it was the right choice when them lips parted, ready for my kisses. Couldn’t help teasing you a bit, playing just a bit, since you _missed_ it.”

Peter snorts, shifting on the couch. “Don’t,” he grunts, shooting Harley a short glare.

“Do,” insists Harley, voice full of fun and sass. “Do, too.”

“Don’t either,” snorts Peter, crossing his arms.

“Look at that lip,” teases Harley. “Kiss me, wifey, send me out to prowl with a smile.”

Peter snorts again.

“Or I’ll come get one,” warns Harley. “Don’t make no difference to me.”

Peter glares at the man’s stupid, dumb-looking spats.

“Oh, Angel,” sighs Harley, shaking his head. “S’pose you gotta learn the hard way.” He climbs quickly back onto Peter’s lap, sliding his hands along Peter’s jaw, back into Peter’s hair, which feels nice until he suddenly grips hard, making Peter gasp in shock. “Yeah,” says Harley, tugging Peter’s head back abruptly, “man’s got a right to a kiss, send him on his way with a hitch in his step, gotta learn that, Angel.” And then he seals his mouth over Peter’s, fast tongue forcing its way past Peter’s lips, into his mouth. Peter grunts into the kiss, and Harley makes a satisfied noise, and then Peter’s too busy _keeping_ _up_ to keep track of any noises anyone might be making or not making.

“Harley,” says Tony from the connecting door to Pepper’s suite, sounding amused and annoyed at the same time, “Would you get offa him, get a leg on, got places to be tonight.”

Harley makes a groaning noise and calls back, “Just getting my send off.” He nips at Peter’s lips and says, “You don’t wait up for me. Wanna see you sleeping sweetly, like an angel, when I get home.”

Peter rolls his eyes and Harley laughs. “Yeah, yeah, you just go ahead and think that,” he tells Peter, standing and moving with the bounding motion Peter loves about him, all energy and action. Peter shifts to glance at the doorway where Tony leans, looking like an absolute, utter _sheik_ in the most devastating way possible, with the deep rust brown of his suit, the creamy gold of the shirt underneath it.

“Have a good night, Angel,” the Boss says with a smirk. He turns to Harley and says, “You got some plans I need to know about?” as they walk into the bathroom.

“Oh, just some ideas,” laughs Harley. “I’m up for anything, you know it.”

“Always are,” is the last thing Peter hears, before the door closes. He takes in a long, slow breath, and lets it out again, just as long and low. He considers the clothes Harley has dropped to the floor and blows out an annoyed breath. He’s _not the wife_ , but he sure does spend a lot of time cleaning up after Harley. He stands up and reaches down, picks up the pants, and some loose change falls out, with a matchbook. He scoops up the change, shaking his head, but looks at the matchbook with interest. The cover reads _Yonkers Raceway_ and Peter stares, thinking of the mystery novel he’s read all day, and thinking dumbly, a _clue_. It’s gotta be a clue, to where Harley is, what Harley’s been doing.

He takes the pants to the hamper in the bathroom, dumps them, tosses the loose change in the jar on the dresser. He flips the matchbook through his fingers. He could be wrong. It could just be a matchbook from last night, from last week, Harley’s pockets are always hoards of odds and ends. His eyes narrow as he thinks about it and then mutters, “Yup, telling Steve,” as he shoots forward, out of the room. Steve can make the call, connect the dots that Peter can’t, but he doesn’t think he’s ever heard Harley talk about a Yonkers Raceway, anyway. And it’s worth a shot, if they can bust through the clouds hanging around Bucky, making him snap and spark at anyone in his way.

~~~

Peter’s sound asleep when the door creaks open, for once not flying and hitting the wall. Harley whistles, quietly, and then says in an undertone, “Thanks, Jimmy-boy, have a good night.”

There’s a chuckled, “You too, Harleycat. All them ideas you sharin’ the whole ride home, can’t even be mad at you right now. But I will figure out what you’re up to, Hellcat, so sleep easy tonight.”

Harley snorts, and the door eases shut. Peter can hear Harley cross to the bedside table, start taking off his rings, his pocketwatch, empty his pockets of change. There’s the sound of shoes hitting the floor, next, the rustling of fabric, and then the curtains twitch back. Peter lays there, pretending to be asleep, keeping his muscles loose and his face slack, breathing even.

“So damn pretty,” whispers Harley. “Sleepin’ so sweet, our Angel.” He ties back the curtain with silent soft fingers, slips his body to settle gently down onto the mattress. He runs one hand gently down Peter’s naked arm, starting at the shoulder, and rounding the path past his elbow, tracing Peter’s fingers. “Wake up, Angel,” he croons. “Harley’s home.”

Peter gives himself a shake, feigning a small startle, opening his eyes with a flutter, scrubbing at them. “Harley?” he asks, voice croaking a little more than he’d planned.

“Yeah,” confirms Harley, a smile threaded through his voice. “Told you I’d come home to you. Here, get out of that bed, we’ll sleep in the big one tonight, got the covers pulled back.” Peter glances at the big bed and then back at Harley, who is wearing his vest loose and open, suspenders still on over the shirt, with the top few buttons popped open. Harley’s smile broadens and he says, “Yeah, you like me all done up, and you like me after the prowl, too, I can see it, watch them big eyes of yours blow wide with it, don’t even bother lyin’, brother.”

Peter nods, because it’s the middle of the night, and Harley is, in fact, something of a vision in the soft glow of the gas lights. His hair is glinting, just a bit, catching the light, and his cheeks are flushed with excitement. He looks back at Peter and the smile slides into his familiar smirk. “C’mon, Angel, got such ideas. Ran ‘em past Tony, he gave me the go-ahead, ran off to the Fantastic to go scratch his itches tonight. I almost begged off to chase after some skirts myself,” he muses, but then lifts a hand and pushes Peter’s hair off of his forehead. “But I couldn’t leave you lying here, waiting, somehow,” he confesses, almost shyly.

Peter shakes his head, wondering at that tone. Harley grabs for Peter’s hand, lifts it up to his mouth, and kisses the palm. “Get up, Angel, shift, big bed’s waiting on us,” directs Harley, standing up, pulling on Peter’s hand.

Peter slips out of the bed, and feels his skin start to flush as Harley whistles, long and low, watching him stand. “Finally too hot, huh?” he teases. “Or you do that just hoping Tony’d let me be and I’d come wake you up tonight?”

Peter rolls his eyes expressively, because there’s no point in answering the question, and then leads the way to the big bed, slipping under the covers while Harley shrugs out of his vest, drops it on the pile of pants and socks already beside the bed. He unbuttons the blue shirt slowly, lays the cufflinks on the bedside table, watching Peter with a heavy gaze. “Take them covers off, let me look,” he orders, and Peter swallows, sliding the covers down, kicking them to the end of the bed. “Such a nice pecker, just a little bit smaller than mine,” comments Harley, skimming out of the suspenders, and Peter feels a blush slide up his neck, settle in his cheeks. “Or maybe that’s just a trick of how tidy and neat Bucky keeps it. Nice of him to do it for me,” he acknowledges. “Damndest thing.” His slips out of the shirt, sliding the undershirt over his head in one smooth move to drop it on the pile next. 

He has a small patch of hair, and a hundred scars all over his chest, thinks Peter. He’s seen them before, swimming with Harley, but somehow in the gas lights, they stick out more, glisten and gleam. The thickest is as wide as one of Peter’s fingers, but there are spiderweb thin lines, too. The scars travel all the way around, Peter knows, and up and down, dotting Harley’s body, marks of everything he’s survived so far, everything that hasn’t killed him, how strong he’s been.

“God, Angel, your skin is like cream,” marvels Harley. “Gonna lap it up tonight,” he promises Peter, working on the buttons on his pants, letting them drop, shaking his hips and dropping the drawers, too. He steps out of them by kneeling up on the bed, leg beside Peter’s hips, and flips the next leg to rest beside Peter’s other hip, settling down to sit on Peter’s thighs. Peter doesn’t look down, doesn’t look away from Harley’s rapt expression, but he knows what he’ll see if he does. Harley’s flushed with desire, and his dick will be, too, flushed and taut, straining up against Harley’s stomach in a deep curve. “You lay there waiting for me all night, sleeping so sweet?” he asks hopefully.

Peter can’t deny him that, not with that wistful tone in his voice, so he says, “Yeah, Harley. I waited a bit.”

Harley’s pleased smile is sweet and wide, and his hands are gentle as they trace across Peter’s chest. “So good for me, Angel. Coulda stayed out all night, got Tony to turn us in early, so I could get back here. Bucky says I’m practically reformed. Won’t happen every night,” he warns Peter, “so don’t go thinking you’ve tamed me.”

Peter shakes his head, blows out a breath of air as Harley’s fingers tease a nipple absently. “No,” he agrees quietly, “nothing could tame you, Hellcat.”

Harley’s lips twitch, a momentary smirk, and he says, “First time I ever heard you say that, Angel. I like it. You can go ahead and use it tonight some more.”

Peter nods, and Harley tweaks his nipples fast, to make Peter squirm and bat at his hands, “Get off, Hellcat,” wheezes Peter, to the sound of Harley’s low laughter. 

“Sorry, Angel,” Harley chuckles. “Couldn’t resist. I’ll be good to ya, make it up to ya, you sit up here, give me a welcome home peck all sweet. I know you can do it.”

Peter pushes up, a little nervous for some reason. Harley is always kissing him, grabbing him at random and shoving his tongue practically down Peter’s throat, but he’s not like Tony, doesn’t demand that Peter kiss him. Harley takes what he wants, most times, and leaves Peter gasping to figure out if it was what Peter wanted, too, in his wake. He tilts his head, and watches Harley’s eyes darken a bit as he draws near. He places a gentle kiss on Harley’s lips, and then, thinking of what he knows about Harley, he flicks his tongue against the other man’s lips, asking for entry. Harley groans, and parts his lips, and then he takes over, sucking Peter’s tongue deep into his mouth, his own tongue twisting in the familiar tricks Peter recognizes. His hands are clever, trailing around Peter’s chin, his ears, down his neck, tracing gently. Peter rests his own hands on Harley’s hips, twitching his fingers there as he gasps into the kiss.

Harley pulls back gasping, and then rests his forehead against Peter’s. “Real nice welcome,” he says. “Nice not having to put on a show for some other guy, just do what I want,” he muses, trailing a hand up Peter’s arm. “Don’t do that much,” he says softly, flicking his eyes up to meet Peter’s briefly before looking at his hand on Peter’s skin. Peter nods, because he’s seen that, he’s felt that, felt like Harley was always showing him off. “I like it,” says Harley in a low and fierce voice. “I like putting on a show.” Peter nods again, because that’s true, that’s _evident_ , that’s been evident since that first car ride. “But I could like this, too,” says Harley, trailing a single finger around one of Peter’s nipples. Peter shivers, because having all of Harley’s attention focused on him is a heady experience, full of anticipation and just the slightest fear that there’s no one around to make Harley stop if he goes too far too fast.

Harley’s lips twitch and he reaches a hand down, caresses up and down Peter’s length, making Peter grunt and shift under him. “Think I’m gonna take what I want some,” he suggests. “You just lie back, Angel, be good for me, I’ll be good for you, too.”

Peter falls back onto the pillows and then arches almost immediately, as Harley’s hands tighten, wrapped around his shaft, tugging hard. “S-slow down,” Peter hisses, remembering Steve’s suggestion several weeks back. “S-slow, Hellcat, please,” he protests, and is shocked when Harley does, when his grip loosens and he leans down, nips at Peter’s lips, chuckling. 

“Aww, you want it to last, wanna draw it out, sweet thing?” teases Harley. “I c’n do that, Angel. Want you in my mouth, anyway, want to hear you whine and beg. Can’t do that, you spillin’ too fast and in my hand.” He seems to think for a minute and then smiles wickedly. “Well, I mean, we ain’t tried it yet. Maybe I could. You’re young like me, I keep forgetting. Tony can go hours, ‘specially when he gets some whisky dick, but when he’s done, he’s done, most times. You, though,” and his expression turns considering, as his gentle hand slides up and down Peter’s length, “we never even tested that, did we?”

Peter shakes his head, biting his lip, and Harley’s expression turns dark. “Time we did,” he growls urgently. “Want to find out. You be good, Angel, you’re mine as much as anyone else’s, I found you. You be good and you spill when I tell you to. Gonna get you nice and hot, and you spill when I tell you to.”

Peter whines wordlessly back at Harley, which makes the other man laugh and says, “Aww, sweet baby, buck up a little, show me you like it. No,” he interrupts himself suddenly. “Wait.” He leans over and digs on the bedside table, finding a jar that looks suspiciously familiar. The suspicion is confirmed when he uncaps the top and pours out some clear oil into the palm of his hand and slides it quickly to coat Peter’s dick. “Anybody give you a slick handy yet?” he asks absently, placing the pot back on the bedside, leaving it ominously uncapped.

Peter nods, and when Harley’s eyes fly up, he whispers, “Steve.”

“Well,” drawls Harley, smile spreading. “Good for him, and good for you. You let me know if you need it slower, now you’re slick.” Peter nods “Okay, you buck up, show me you like what I’m doing, any time you feel it, Angel,” orders Harley, eyes watching his hand, watching Peter’s dick disappear and reappear as he strokes, long and slow. Peter grunts and thrusts immediately, because it feels so good, he knows, from Steve, how good it feels, how good he’s going to feel, how fast this can go. “Sweet Angel,” laughs Harley. “You buck up all you want, I like that.”

Peter bucks, then, thrusting up into Harley’s hand, and Harley keeps his own slow rhythm steady, accepting Peter’s wild and untimed thrusts with delight, murmuring praise and encouragement until Peter can feel the pull, can feel his balls tighten, and he wheezes, “Hellcat, Hell- Harley-” which makes the other man chuckle in delight and reply, “Go on, Angel, spill for me.” Peter shakes as he spills, shakes and thrusts, and Harley continues to chuckle in delight, murmuring praise.

When Peter’s done, Harley grabs a pillow and wipes his hand on the case, then strips the case off and uses it to wipe down Peter, making Peter twitch and moan. “Feelin’ good, Angel?” teases Harley, rubbing his own erection a little. Peter whimpers and Harley’s smile broadens. “ _Sounds_ like it,” he says, and then trails a hand down Peter’s face cupping his jaw and rubbing a thumb over Peter’s lips. “Looks like it, too.”

“Hellcat,” whines Peter against the thumb. Harley smirks and says, “Yeah, I do like that, like how you say it.” He shifts his legs off of Peter, back, down further on the bed and says, warningly, “Now we’re gonna find that out, what I said, want you in my mouth, want you to spill again, if you can. Take your time, I know it’s gonna feel powerful strong at first, maybe too strong for a sweet angel like you. You go ahead and pull my hair if you need it, I won’t mind, I’ll like it. Let loose some of them crocodile tears, twist and buck up, whine if you gotta. Just no shouting, no waking up the neighbors caterwauling. Don’t need anybody joining in, wanting a show,” he mutters darkly. Peter is gasping under the onslaught of the words Harley is giving him, gasping and shocked. “You ain’t ready,” laughs Harley, dipping his head, his breath hot against Peter’s softening dick. “There ain’t no _ready_ for this, I learned that. But you’ll survive it, just get through, Angel, and then we’ll see.”

He dips his head and tongues at the slit to Peter’s dick. Peter whimpers because it is immediately obvious it will be too much, whatever Harley wants, it’s too much already, and Peter would move if he could. Harley’s forearms rest on Peter’s hips, holding him flat and open for Harley’s mouth, pressing down strong and certain. Harley’s head bobs, and Peter thinks of that first car ride, watching it bob on Steve’s length, feeling scared, feeling terrified. His breath hitches at the memory, and Harley hums. Peter’s eyes shoot wide open and his hands bury themselves in Harley’s hair, trying to tug the other man up, and off, it hurts, it’s too much, it’s, it’s like electric shock, like the crack of a gun, everything sharp and shocking, too loud, too much.

Harley chuckles, lifts his mouth off of Peter and says, “You can pull all you want, Angel, I ain’t stopping. Just get through this part, it’ll settle out, and then I’ll see.” He sucks Peter down to the root.

Peter whines at him, pulling on his hair, it’s too much, it’s too much, then finds his words to gasp, “No, Hellcat, please, no.”

“Don’t,” hisses Harley, head rearing up to glare at Peter, face twisted with sudden rage, fingers digging in to Peter’s skin. “Don’t you dare tell me no. I don’t mind going slow, you want to draw it out, but I ain’t being told no by _you_.” His frown is ferocious, and Peter is hyper aware of every scar he can see, on Harley’s hands, resting on his stomach, on Harley’s neck and shoulders and back. Peter nods, frantically, and thinks of Bucky, thinks of settling Bucky, and whispers, “Sorry, Harley, don’t be mad, don’t be so mad, didn’t mean it like that. Not, not saying no, promise, Harley, not, you can do- I’ll be good.” It’s only a little bit of a lie. He did mean no, he did mean, _no, Harley, stop_ , but he thinks of soothing Bucky, thinks of how he made that work, and he can lie a little, if it’ll soften Harley up, just a little.

Harley’s eyes soften immediately and he says, “Oh. Yeah. Sorry, maybe wasn’t listening for what you were meaning.” Peter breathes out, and Harley says, “You’re good, Angel, I know how it feels, Steve and Bucky trade me between ‘em for hours ‘til I’m crying from it, when they get the itch for it, I know what you meant,” he mutters, dipping his head, licking along Peter’s length. “Just, just be careful what words you give me,” he warns. “Don’t go telling me no, you don’t get to say that to me, Angel.”

Peter takes a ragged breath, hands soothing through Harley’s hair, and says, softly, “Yeah, Harley, yeah, I know that now, I’m sorry, didn’t mean to make you so mad. I’ll be good.”

“You are good,” Harley says forcefully. “Now just take what I want to give, just get through this first part, I’ll make it up to you, I promise, Angel.” He dips his head, engulfing Peter’s length in the hot furnace of his mouth, making hellfire surge up Peter’s spine. Peter whines and winces, hands clutching again at Harley’s hair, but he doesn’t say no, not even when his dick starts to stir, the sensation painful and pressurized. He doesn’t tell Harley no, when his breathing becomes jagged and his heels dig into the mattress, and he doesn’t tell Harley no when the man starts flicking his tongue, hot little hits that make Peter think of sparks from a fire, burning their way down his length, burning past skin and straight into soul.

Harley dips his head, bobbing, until Peter is crying, his chest heaving, every muscle straining up, up, only to be pushed down by the heavy weight of Harley’s forearms. Harley dips, and hums, tongue flicking, and then stops, as Peter feels his skin tighten. He glances up at Peter’s face and says, huskily, “I know them noises, them little whimpers, brother, I know them already. You spill for me, in my mouth, when you can, no hiding, no more going slow, you hear me?”

Peter nods, and Harley flashes him a smile, wicked and light. “Ok, Angel, last round. You spill.”

Peter draws a deep breath, but it’s no use, there’s not enough air in the room for what he needs as Harley’s mouth and tongue and lips and - _hellfire_ , his _teeth_ \- push Peter directly over the edge. He whimpers, and then it slides up, impossibly high, into a whine, a tight breathy little whine, and then he bucks so hard it does snap Harley’s head back, and he spills again. 

Harley holds his mouth there, gentle and warm, until Peter gets enough breath to stop sobbing, until Peter feels his dick start to soften, and then he rises up slowly, swallowing obscenely as he does. He smiles down at Peter, and crawls up his body, gives him a kiss that tastes like smoke and salt. “Knew you could,” he whispers against Peter’s lips. “Gonna have so much fun next time Steve and Bucky decide they want to go all night, offer them _you_ , show them you can cry for it, too.”

Peter would shake his head, but he doesn’t want to rile Harley any. He just watches the other man, his eyes wide, and flinches when Harley chuckles at him. “Them big old doe eyes say, ‘no,’ but I _taste_ you, little Angel, and that says you’ll do it, and _like_ it. I deserve a break, brother, throw you to the wolves for a bit.” He nuzzles Peter’s cheek with his own, nips at Peter’s cheekbones and ear. “Be good for ya, anyway. All kinds of education you still need.”

He pulls Peter’s hand down to his hard length and says, “You know what I want next, now I been so good to you.”

Peter nods, and then, watching Harley’s eyes darken, he says softly, “My turn, Hellcat?”

Harley nods, his eyes dropping to Peter’s mouth. “Let me,” he murmurs, “Just the tip, let me, your mouth, Angel, you can use your hands, but let me slide my tip in, you suck a little.”

Peter nods, because that’s only _fair_ , that’s only _right._ But then he swallows, too, because he’s never, he’s not like Harley, he doesn’t know _how_.

“Here, I’ll make it easy for you,” says Harley eagerly, climbing off Peter to sit beside him on the bed. “Roll over, up,” he directs, and Peter complies. “Lesson Six,” chortles Harley, “or was it eight? Don’t matter, you rub your hands on my shaft, steady and smooth, and keep your mouth locked down as far as you can take me, and let me tug your hair, push and pull you a little, because them other fellas aren’t gonna stay hands off, you gotta get used to it right quick.” Peter nods, face paling with fearful anticipation. “You’ll do fine,” Harley assures him, “I’m so rock hard it won’t take much to have me spilling over. You better swallow,” he warns Peter, tone dark. Peter nods, and swallows reflexively. Harley smiles and teases, “Good wife, get to work, _honey.”_

Peter glares at him, but isn’t willing to take the chance of what Harley might hear in any kind of no tonight, and dips his head, hands rising to wrap around Harley, trying to remember everything the man has taught him about his favorite pressure and rhythm so far. Harley grunts immediately, and then moans as Peter’s lips push past his tip. “Fuck, just the tip,” Harley says, like he’s reminding himself. “Said just the tip, I can do it, but Angel, knowing it’s your lips, does something, fuck. _Suck_ , brother,” he grunts, hands slipping into Peter’s hair, “don’t make me remind you what I want.”

Peter sucks on it, like he’d sucked on the milkshake straw, rough and hard, and Harley whimpers a little, hands clutching just a bit in Peter’s hair. His breathing is ragged already, just with Peter twisting his hands up and down, just with Peter latching on just past the tip. “Fuck, been thinking about this,” mutters Harley, eyes squeezed shut when Peter angles to look up at him. “Told Tony, been thinking about it so much, your lips wrapped around me, told Bucky, told Clint, how you’d look, doing this, how you’d suck for me, good Angel. Clint said as you wouldn’t, but Bucky agreed you would, you’d do anything for us, wouldn’t you, Angel, let us get you dirty, let us wipe our hands in your clean feathers.”

Peter lets Harley’s words wash over him, and then thinks of how Harley works his tongue, tries to remember, and flicks the tip of his tongue across Harley’s slit. “Oh, fuck,” swears Harley, and then his hands push Peter down, implacably. 

“No, brother, fuck, you keep _sucking_ ,” curses Harley. “Don’t you stop, I know I said just the tip, but fuck if I can help it, you _suck_ ,” growls Harley, pushing harder, hands twisting in Peter’s hair. 

“Gonna try tricks, I’m gonna say you’re ready then,” he growls, and then lifts Peter off for a second, only to press him back down. 

“You bob, baby, you bob for me, move that head,” he growls, his fingers smacking the back of Peter’s head lightly, making Peter dizzy with fear. Peter bobs his head, as fast as he can, worried he’s doing it wrong, doing something wrong.

“Fuck, not gonna last, _suck,_ Angel,” Harley chants, then, his voice sliding up into a whine at the end. 

“Now, now, now,” he repeats, shoving Peter’s head back down, and then there’s a flood of warm salt in Peter’s mouth. He doesn’t gag, he doesn’t, Peter _won’t_ , and he swallows as fast as he can, which makes Harley yelp and pull him off roughly. “Fuck, Angel,” he whimpers, holding Peter up by his chin. “Fuck, don’t, _fuck_.” And then he drops his hands and lays there, chuckling weakly.

After a moment, where Peter wipes his lips with the back of his hands, sure he’s done something wrong, the way Harley went wild like that, pushed and pulled Peter’s head. Harley looks up at him and grins, “Didn’t- sorry, was just gonna give you the tip, but then your tongue, Angel, you gotta be careful, a man might not be ready for that.” He grins so broadly at Peter that Peter’s heart relaxes into its normal rhythm and he grins back, shyly. “Good Angel, I knew you could take a man,” teases Harley. “Can’t wait to tell Tony, can’t wait to tell Bucky, you better watch out.”

Peter shakes his head and says nervously, “Oh, Harley, no, don’t, please don’t. Don’t tell, please.”

“Oh, yeah, Angel, you got a line forming,” laughs Harley, pulling him down to lay with his head on Harley’s shoulder. Harley kisses Peter’s forehead and says, “Just you sleep on it tonight, relax a little, just you wait, line’ll form up, you’ll have ‘em all eating out of your hand, twisted ‘round your finger, have that sweet little tongue lick out, tickle their slits, every one of ‘em.”

“Please, Harley,” pleads Peter. “I d-don’t want a line.”

“Sure you do, Angel,” says Harley easily, yawning widely. “You just don’t know it yet. Hush up, now, go to sleep, I’m tired now, sweet little homecoming, looked forward to it, didn’t disappoint.”

His breathing evens out, wet and thick, and drags Peter down into sleep beside him.


	3. Chapter 3

The morning dawns quietly, and Peter wakes up well before Harley. He burrows into the warmth of the other man for a minute, but then sighs and slips from the bed. He’s got gun practice, Clint was awful particular he keep up with the targets, and he doesn’t want to have to do anything in the heat of the day. He shaves, and brushes his teeth, as quietly as he can, and then slips into his usual uniform for breakfast, a pair of gray trousers with suspenders, a shirt, and a nice vest. It’s too hot for coats and ties, he thinks mutinously, and slips from the room barefoot, his boots in one hand.

He pads down to Pepper’s rooms, finds them empty to his surprise, and then doubletimes it down to the kitchens, hoping someone will know the secret of the sweet cream coffee Bucky and Steve make him every morning. Jarvis meets him on the stairs and says, “Bucky is looking for you, up at the range, Master Peter,” his voice warm and full of good humor.

“Oh,” says Peter, startled. “I’m headed right there, he been waiting long?”

“I do not believe so,” murmurs Jarvis.

“Thanks, sir,” says Peter, and turns down the hallways, getting ready to climb the hill.

Bucky has his arms crossed as Peter approaches, but Peter hasn’t _done_ anything, he _hasn’t_ , so he tries not to slow his steps or feel guilty. “You own shoes,” hisses Bucky as Peter gets in earshot. “I see ‘em in your hand.”

“Oh,” says Peter, stupidly. “I, it’s too hot for shoes?” He pauses and shoves his feet into the boots roughly.

Bucky scoffs and then holds out a steaming mug. “Drink this, wise up some. Wanna talk.” Peter takes the coffee with a look of full gratitude and says, “Thanks, Bucky. Go ahead,” he adds, when Bucky just glares at him.

“Steve told me about the matchbook, I never taken him to Yonkers Raceway, so it’s a good idea. We’ll wait for him to light out, got Ben coming over again, have to take you along with again, tell Stark we’re running errands.”

Peter nods, sipping his coffee, watching Bucky’s dark face over the rim. 

“All right, show me how you shoot,” says Bucky abruptly. “Been meaning to come up here, with Clint gone, you been up here every morning without anyone to help.”

“Clint said time behind the table was the most important thing,” Peter tells him quietly. 

“Truth, but time behind the table with someone who knows something’ll get you further,” Bucky tells him. Peter concedes the point easily, places the mug on the table, and reaches for the Stark 1919. Bucky backs away, eyes sharp on Peter’s form, and Peter quietly sights his first shot.

~~~

Steve collects him after lunch, and takes him down to the carriage house. The Bentley is pulled out, gleaming in the sun, and Peter admits he’s got a favorite, and it’s this one. He’ll chase Harley all afternoon, so long as he can do it in this car.

“I got the directions,” says the gravelly voice of Ben, nodding at Peter. “But no one knows what they could be up to.” Bucky nods, and then, seeing Peter, straightens and opens the driver side door. “Gang’s all here,” he tells Ben, and Ben stomps around the vehicle to the shotgun door. Steve opens the backseat and shoves Peter toward the far seat.

“Same rules, Angel,” growls Bucky, as they pull out, twisting his head around to glare at Peter.

Peter says, “Yes, sir,” but then he ruins the effect of being well-behaved by blowing out a breath and rolling his eyes the minute Bucky turns his attention back to the road. Steve slots him a grin as they pull into traffic, shaking his head, but doesn’t comment. Peter spent a good portion of his morning with Bucky at the range, having his angles corrected, the black cloud circling around Bucky lifting only briefly during his daily shave. He figures he’s allowed a little eye roll while the man isn’t looking.

When they pull up to the huge stone building, Peter gapes. There’s people everywhere, and it’s so huge, he wasn’t prepared for how _big_ it is.

As they exit the car, he can hear engines revving, people shouting. 

“What in the Sam Hill,” mutters Bucky, as Steve claps his hands on Peter’s shoulders and says, “Stay close, not losing you in there.” Peter nods, intimidated. The four men head for the entrance, where people are streaming in and out, without any ticket-takers in the booth. They cross through the tunnel into the interior and the roar of engines is so loud, it shakes the ground. When they pour out into the stadium and see the scene, Bucky and Ben begin swearing and don’t stop until Peter’s learned new words.

Down on the dirt track, there are _chariots_ attached to _motorcycles_ , and young men everywhere, with tools and without, driving them around the track. Peter’s jaw is still gaping wide as Steve pushes him forward, muttering, “Let’s go, Angel, we got a Cat to skin.”

“The damn _fools_ ,” spits Ben. “What _is_ this nonsense?”

“Suicide,” replies Bucky in a voice made of steel and straps.

“You said it, brother,” grunts Ben, starting the climb down. “You spot them?”

“Yeah,” says Bucky. “Far side, red chariot with the flames.”

“Gonna wrap my hands around his throat,” growls Ben, “and just squeeze.”

Bucky grunts. Peter looks over his shoulder at Steve, who is shaking his head grimly. There’s only six chariots, it’s not hard to find the one Bucky’s describing, but Peter is more than a little horrified to think six teams of people are participating in this madness. Motorcycles are one thing, but they’re not horses, and attaching them to chariots seems- there’s a loud bang, and then a rumble, and the sound of metal shearing. Peter jumps, and Steve grabs him, shoving him behind Steve, hand sliding under his jacket. Peter watches over Steve’s shoulder in horror as a chariot, circling in a test run, knocks into the wall again and topples over. Men from several crews run over, grabbing the thrown driver, spraying chemicals on the motorcycle, gathering up the pieces of the chariot they can reach.

“Suicide,” mutters Bucky. “Suicide because I’m gonna _kill_ him.”

“I’m gonna let you,” says Steve firmly, and they share a dark look over Peter’s head as Steve pulls Peter firmly in front of him again. The group of four begins moving forward, picking their way through the sparse crowd gathered on the seats watching what is clearly a practice.

They walk in grim silence, taking the stairs together and then moving to stand at the railing, in front of Harley and Johnny’s chariot. Harley and Johnny are fighting, throwing tools at each other at one point, while the rest of their crew continues to work, shoulders hunched, their exasperation obvious from the way that they shake their heads and roll their eyes at each other while the two hotheaded fools shout at each other. 

“You see a way down?” mutters Bucky.

“None,” answers Ben shortly. “Gotta way to get them up here, though,” he says, and then he takes a deep breath and shouts, “JOHNNY STORM.”

Even with the engines revving in the background, it’s impressive. Heads turn all around the stadium, looking for the source of the bellow. The way Johnny jumps a foot into the air and whirls, looking wildly, would be comical if Peter wasn’t still completely horrified by the fact that these people are planning to pull _chariots_ with _motorcycles_. 

He can see the moment Johnny places them, because the man loses all color and says “Harley.” Peter can read that name on his lips easily, even over the distance. Harley’s head swings around and he catches sight of the four of them and swallows, turning white.

“Yeah, look at me,” says Bucky darkly. He points to the ground beside him. 

Harley shakes his head, expression dark, chin jutting in more hotheaded stubbornness. 

Bucky taps his _holster._ Peter gasps, and feels a trickle of panic sneak down his spine. He darts a glance down to Harley, because Bucky’s so mad it radiates out from him, and maybe he would shoot Harley, he’s been threatening to kill him all week.

Harley pulls a face, dropping his tool to the ground in frustration, and crossing his arms up at Bucky. Bucky shrugs, and starts climbing the railing, clearly intent on dropping to the stadium floor. 

Harley holds up his arms and gestures for Bucky to wait, grabbing a visibly reluctant Johnny by the arm and hauling him through one of the entrances to the raceway, shouting something to the crew left bewildered behind them.

It takes a few minutes, during which time Ben and Bucky fume and Steve watches the other charioteer crews with a growing frown of disapproval. Harley is still dragging Johnny by the arm and Johnny fights it until Ben straightens up, crossing his arms and frowning, snapping his fingers and pointing to the ground in front of him. Johnny winces, then, and slinks after Harley, shaking off his hand and twitching the wrinkled fabric straight.

“H-hey, fellas,” tries Harley as they near, holding his hands up in front of him and pausing them both just outside of arm’s reach. “What are you doing here?”

“Try again,” grunts Bucky,clearly unimpressed by his casual greeting. “Start with ‘I’m a damn fool, Bucky.’”

Harley gulps and takes a small step back.

Ben asks Johnny, in a voice that’s hard and cheerful at the same time, “They got rooms here, or am I tanning you as part of a public show? Only I don’t know how much to charge these folks for the pleasure,” he adds bitingly, gesturing to the scattered crowd in the stands.

Johnny and Harley glance at each other. “I-” says Harley, after Johnny nods in a _you-go-head_ gesture. “I think we can _talk_ out here?”

“Only discussion I want to have is with _your_ backside,” grunts Ben at Johnny, who flinches visibly. “Not interested in excuses, already can tell what damnfool idea you got into your head.”

“You got just the one chariot, or two?” asks Steve suddenly.

Harley winces and looks up at him, and then looks away, admitting, “Two.”

Ben and Bucky both swear violently, the shape of the adventure starting to come into relief for Peter, too. _Oh_. He can just see it, the two of them knocking heads together, challenging each other to do this stunt, the excitement of the trick racing. 

“We just wanted t’race the once,” tries Johnny, essaying a nervous smile. “Just the once, I swear, Ben, and we got all the safety features, got us crew who been doing it months now.”

“Experts,” says Harley authoritatively.

“Experts at getting you tanned before you get yourselves killed,” agrees Bucky.

“Now, Bucky,” starts Harley, hands coming up defensively. “I ain’t even crashed once.” That sounds reassuring, thinks Peter, until Johnny winces and says, “Well…” 

Harley winces, too, and says, “Not bad, anyway, any one you walk away from…” his voice trails off, as if he just now started listening to what he was saying.

“You ain’t walking away lightly from this crash, I guarantee it,” growls Bucky, sounding almost cheerful. “Won’t be sitting, either. Might be snuffling and moaning,” he concedes. “You finding us a room, or are we doing it here, all public-like?” He taps his fingers on his belt suggestively and Peter swallows hard.

“Aww, Bucky,” tries Harley, looking up at the man through his lashes. Peter swallows, because he knows that look, and it don’t belong here, out in public, with the rev of motors and the shouts of strange men. “I c’n quit, if you don’t like the idea.”

“Too late for that, Cat,” says Bucky severely. “Been sneaking around almost two weeks now, was gonna tan you anyway for ducking security like that, but this?” He chops a hand at the arena. “This’s worth it all on its own, you damnfool idiot.”

Harley winces, shooting looks at the bystanders, who are none of them in easy earshoot, if Peter is any judge.

“I c’n,” says Johnny, hesitantly, watching this interplay with growing unease. “We paid. We got access, a locker room,” he says, while Harley hisses at him. “Don’t want any more people watching,” Johnny hisses back at Harley. “Jig is up, and they ain’t _understanding_ , like you thought they might be.”

“Never said _understanding_ ,” protests Harley.

Johnny sneers back at him until Ben shifts and grunts, “Lead the way, spitfire.”

Peter shakes his head, backing up. He doesn’t want any part of this. He bumps into Steve, who murmurs, “Steady, Angel,” as Johnny and Ben breeze past, Bucky and Harley following close behind. Steve puts his hands on Peter’s shoulders and pushes, saying, “All right, Angel, follow along, don’t want anyone getting lost around here.” Peter can feel his heart in his throat because he don’t want to be any part of this. He don’t. He’s not going to. But he follows along, because he can’t think out here, with the clanks and the growls of the engines, the shouting.

Johnny leads them through several hallways, until they’re clearly under the stadium, where it’s damp and cool. All of the noises are muted here, and Peter breathes a sigh of relief, trailing after Steve. Johnny looks nervously behind him, and turns right, down a short hallway, to a thick wooden door. “In- in here, we can _talk_ ,” he says, pointedly.

“Ain’t talking, too mad,” grunts Ben, pushing him forward. “Time for talking was two weeks ago, when whichever one of you came up with this damnfool idea said something to the other. That was the time for talking, you wanted to talk.”

The younger men look at each other, around Ben’s bulk, and Peter can see the resolve in their eyes. He doesn’t, he doesn’t want to hang around, doesn’t want to see if one of them breaks and says whose idea it was, doesn’t want to watch Ben and Bucky deal with them. He hangs in the doorway until Steve says, “In, Angel. Don’t need any audience to this discussion.” Harley flinches, Peter notices, and Peter swallows, stepping in, the door closing behind him

“Sit,” snaps Bucky, and both men sit. 

“When’s the last time we whupped ‘em together,” muses Ben.

“Last year, Johnny’s birthday,” supplies Bucky, but then he hesitates.

“RKO show,” corrects Steve. Bucky and Ben nod, Ben saying, “Oh, yeah, forgot about that. Well, old time’s sake, you want my belt or what?” Bucky laughs and Harley winces and that’s clearly a joke that Peter never needs explained to him.

“I don’t need a whupping,” says Johnny, clearly and distinctly. Peter’s palms start to sweat and he leans back against the door, because this is exactly how it starts, how they always start. “I’m a grown man, I made a decision, I did my research, we been upgrading the safety features exactly like you’d want, Ben. I’m not stopping now and I don’t need a whupping so you can show me who’s boss.”

Harley winces, and looks up at Bucky’s scowl, and shakes his head. “I’ll take mine,” he says hoarsely. “I’d rather the whupping than the other.”

“Yeah, I figured,” snorts Bucky. “Ducking security. Coming out here. Risking breaking your neck. You better pray I don’t let on to Stark.” Peter feels a shiver go through the room, and even Johnny looks frightened by the threat of Tony Stark, Butcher of New York, called in to deal with Harley.

“He’d like the races,” offers Harley with a small smile. 

“Not with you in the chariot,” protests Steve, exasperated.

“Mm,” grunts Bucky, non-committal. “Don’t care what Boss would like or not like, who’d he assign to you?”

Harley winces. “You.”

“And who’d you duck?” asks Bucky, eyes blazing.

Harley winces again. “You. Sir.”

“Then I’m who you’ll be dealing with,” agrees Bucky. Peter swallows, because the sheer amount of menace Bucky can put into an agreeable statement makes Harley, Harley of the 100 scars, blanch. Johnny looks faint. “And I don’t much like the idea of you getting your neck broke for some dumb bet between you and this idiot. You hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” whispers Harley, looking up at Bucky. Peter’s stomach twists and his hand finds the doorknob. He’s not, he’s not staying for this. He’s not going to stay here. He doesn’t need to be here. He can wait outside.

“Smart kid,” grunts Ben. “You gonna be smart, Johnny?”

Johnny squares his jaw. “He’s a kid, maybe, but I been an adult for awhile now, Ben. I notice you don’t agree.”

“Kid, you could be forty and I’ll still throw you over a bench if you need it,” Ben assures him. “I swear my belt’s the only thing ever keeps you from dying of sheer dumb.” 

Bucky and Steve both snort agreement. Harley flinches, staring at Bucky’s hands, fingers tapping on his belt buckle. Peter feels the knob twist under his hand and thinks to himself, _slowly_. He maps out a route in his head, all the way back to the car, breath coming fast.

Ben continues, “Dying of sheer dumb. Dumb like this idea, dumb like sneaking out of the Baxter Mansion every day the last two weeks. Dumb like dragging Harley along into this with you.” Peter notices neither Harley nor Johnny demur at this statement although it had to be a shot in the dark on Ben’s part. Steve shifts, and catches Peter’s eye, and then notices where his hand is, brows drawing down in concern. 

“Bucky, Peter and I are gonna have a little walk, he don’t need to stand here watching,” Steve says. “Won’t go far. Can always meet at the car, we get separated.”

Bucky grunts, and Peter nods, grateful, so grateful to Steve he could choke, as Steve waves him out of the room.

When they hit the cool air of the hallway, Peter gasps a little, and Steve says, “What’s eating you?”

“Just don’t, don’t like to see it,” says Peter, clenching his teeth. “That’s all, just, makes me twitchy.” More than twitchy, he admits to himself, there’s a jangle in his nerves he hasn’t felt in weeks. He needs to get calm, get centered, he thinks wildly. Get balanced. 

Steve reaches out to touch his arm just as Harley’s voice yelps through the door. Peter has no idea what happens, but something about the move, Steve reaching out to him, and something about Harley yelping, pinches something in his chest, pinches it hard, and twists it, and then he’s off like a shot.

He’s thinking of the car, of just getting back to the car, but then he hears the heavy footsteps behind him, Steve, and he can’t think of anything but _get away._ He flees, blindly, climbing the stairs two, three at a time, bursting out on an upper level, searching for more stairs, higher, he has to get higher, away, away from what’s behind him. Away from the basement, from what’s happening down there, Bucky so angry, so horribly angry. Away from Ben saying he wanted to wrap his hands around Harley’s neck and _squeeze_.

His chest is heaving when he spots the second set of stairs, and he takes off for them, ignoring the people he bounces off of, ignoring everything, ignoring the shout, the familiar voice, behind him. He runs, and then he climbs, skipping steps, the sound of heavy footsteps behind him spurring him on. His body finally gives out, just before a landing, and he falls, heavily, and he _can’t breathe._ Steve is right there, filling his vision, so fast, so fast, he must have been right behind Peter the whole way, so _fast_. He crouches in front of Peter and says, “Peter Stark, you are a raving lunatic,” but his voice is affectionate. Peter can’t laugh, can’t breathe, and he’s going to have bruises, he fell so hard. His skin is itching, his pulse racing, he needs to _move_ , but he _can’t breathe._

“Eyes on me, Angel,” says Steve sternly, and Peter’s eyes flinch to Steve’s face, so terrified that he can’t make sense of all the parts of the face- the eyes, the nose, they’re not making a cohesive whole in front of him, but it’s Steve’s voice, Steve’s voice, and Peter clings to it. 

“I’m going to try a thing,” says Steve, but the words don’t make sense to Peter. Steve leans forward and grabs Peter’s arms, lifts him up with brute force, carrying him the few steps to the landing. Peter can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, but he squirms in Steve’s heavy grasp, regardless.

On the landing, Steve spins him quickly to face the nearest cool stone corner and orders, “Eyes shut,” in a quiet, stern tone. He rests his weight on Peter, forearms pressed across the back of Peter’s shoulders, and breathes, deeply, saying, “Breathe. First you breathe, then we’ll sort this out.” 

Every time that Peter twitches, tries to move, Steve’s hands tap his shoulder or he leans in. When Peter tries to splutter, tries to explain, tries to say he’s fine, now, Steve hisses, “Shut it. Breathe.” 

They stand that way until Peter’s breathing evens out, slowing, until it matches Steve’s. It takes forever, it takes ages, Peter can feel the sweat cooling on his skin before Steve shifts, lifts his forearms, his heavy weight coming up off of Peter. Peter heaves a sigh and melts forward, forehead on his fists against the cool of the stone walls, face flaming and a new fear making his heart skip a beat. He _ran away_ from Steve. Steve, his _bodyguard_. He _ran_.

“I ran,” mutters Peter into the corner, eyes tightly closed against the embarrassment.

“And I chased,” confirms Steve. “You can start talking anytime, but don’t you pull that nose outta that corner until I give you the say-so.”

Peter nods and says, “Yes, sir,” miserably.

“You don’t like something, you got some words you can use, Angel,” chides Steve.

 _Oh, God_. “Asking them to slow down seemed like a bad idea,” he says lightly, and isn’t really all that shocked when Steve smacks the back of his head. It makes his breathing hitch up, but he’s not shocked.

“I didn’t chase you up four flights to listen to your sass,” growls Steve. “And I ain’t got a problem dragging you back down ‘em to make sure I don’t hafta listen to more.”

Peter feels fear slide down his spine, just below the sweat. “S-sorry,” he hisses. “S-sorry, S-Steve. S-sorry, sir.”

“Better,” concedes Steve, clapping his hands on Peter’s shoulders, shaking him a little. “Now _talk_.”

Peter swallows, eyes opening, staring down at the cool gray stone of the wall. He shifts, and Steve’s hands shake him again, in warning. “I-I-I,” stammers Peter, before the embarrassment chokes him again.

“Yeah, _you_ , Angel, that’s what we’re doing here, dealing with _you_ , now start explaining what the hell just happened here,” growls Steve.

Peter swallows and says, “I’m _sorry_ , sir.”

“I don’t mind a little exercise,” hisses Steve, “it’s the unexpected I object to. Start talking.”

Peter nods, mind racing, and finally says in a small voice, “I just, I just panicked.”

“Kid, you’re gonna have to tell me something I don’t already know,” says Steve sharply. “What bit you?”

“I don’t, I didn’t want to be there,” says Peter miserably. “For the- for when Bucky-”

“Yeah, I could figure that,” agrees Steve. “Why, Angel? S’not your backside in peril. Well, _wasn’t_ , anyway.”

Peter flinches, struck by the thought that he _ran_ , and Steve could- Steve could decide to _make an impression_ over that. “P-please, Steve, I’m _sorry_ ,” he gasps.

“So get talking,” growls Steve. “Why?”

“I don’t, I don’t know,” gasps Peter. There’s a snort behind him and he shakes his head. “I don’t, Steve, I don’t, I promise, I don’t know what happened.”

“Well, you better not bolt every damn time Harley needs t’be tanned because I hate to tell ya, Angel, but he’s been on his best behavior these past several weeks and I don’t see that lasting more’n another month, tops. I’ll chase you down, but I’m gonna get a mite irritated, I have to do it regular,” admits Steve, his deep voice full of censure.

Peter swallows, and feels himself start to shake a little. “P-please,” he whispers. “I’m s-sorry.”

“Yeah, you can button up on that, say your sorries to Pepper, we get home,” says Steve decisively. “She’s the one’s gonna forgive you, remember? My job is to chase.”

“I-I didn’t, I’m not, I wasn’t _running_ _away_ ,” stumbles Peter. “I wasn’t running from _you_.”

“Sure gave the impression you was,” argues Steve, hands gripping just a little tighter on Peter’s shoulders.

“I wasn’t,” insists Peter, although he knows that sounds ridiculous, he had, technically, run from Steve. “I, I promise, Steve.” He kicks at the wall in front of him, not sure how to explain. “I just, I just... “ he realizes he’s going to have to say it, and his voice drops. “I just got _scared_.” He shifts, embarrassed, because those are the words of a little kid, not a grown man.

“What scared you?” asks Steve, baffled. “Me?”

“No!” bursts Peter. “No, not you, not really.” A little, though, says a small voice inside, remembering that awful moment, Steve reaching out for him, Harley yelping behind the door, the thrum of the motors and the shouts above them. “I just, I just don’t like _watching_ ,” he mumbles, bouncing his forehead off of his fists because he’s not five but he sure sounds like it.

“We _weren’t_ ,” Steve reminds him, in a sharp voice like he’s not buying it. “Saw you grabbing on the door, got us out.”

Peter grunts, “Could still hear, some.”

“Well, if you’d said, we coulda _walked_ more than _three steps_ ,” says Steve with exasperation. “What about it gets you so shaky on your pins you gotta run, Angel?” His voice is so gentle that Peter’s throat closes.

Peter shakes his head, “I dunno. It doesn’t, I never done it before, never run like that. I been so _mad_ at Harley, Steve,” he says suddenly. “I been so _worried_. And then we get here and he’s like to break his neck, all them times, coming home with them scratches and bruises, Steve, he coulda been killed.” His voice is catching, and he’s not crying, so he shuts his mouth tight, grits his teeth. “I never been so mad at someone.”

“Ah,” says Steve, slowly. “ _That_ , that is familiar. ‘Suppose this is your first, ain’t it? First time seeing Harley do some damnfool devilry, get a hankering to try his hand at killing his own self.”

“I never been so mad at anyone,” says Peter eventually. “And then he- arguing with Bucky, Steve, he was arguing with Bucky, when Bucky’s been so mad, too, these last two weeks.”

“Ah,” says Steve again, like things are getting clearer, which is news to Peter, he still feels muddled.

“He’s been coming out here,” he says harshly, kicking at the wall, “leaving me with Bucky’s temper, leaving me to duck Bucky, every day. Just to come out here and half kill himself.”

Steve’s hands pat his back and then spin him, suddenly. “He’s fine,” Steve tells him, lifting Peter’s chin and then grunting, “Eyes up, Angel.”

Peter’s eyes flinch up to Steve’s face. “Harley is fine. Nothing happened,” repeats Steve, slowly and carefully, eyes searching Peter’s face.

“He _crashed_ , Steve,” says Peter, and to his horror his voice cracks. He presses his lips together, breathes through his nose, and then says in a tight voice, “Like that one when we was walking in, he _crashed_.”

“He’s fine,” repeats Steve. “And Bucky ain’t killing him down there, neither. You’ll see, he’ll be some sore, Bucky does make a hard impression, but Bucky ain’t killing him, neither.”

“He’s got all them scars,” whispers Peter, flinching at what he’s saying, not wanting the answer to what he’s trying not to ask to be true.

“Ah,” says Steve, and his eyes narrow. “Them ain’t Bucky’s doing, Angel. Or maybe just one or two,” he concedes. “I think in the early days Harley wasn’t so good at holding still.” He relaxes a little, considering Peter, and says, “Most of ‘em are from long before we got him, Peter. Harley lived a hard life, before us, wasn’t anyone to t’take care of him, and you seen how wild he is _now._ He came to us in busted bits and it was Bucky helped put him back to where he is. Gives him a tune-up when he gets like this, but he ain’t gonna scrap him, Angel.”

Peter blows out a breath, and then gasps in his next one. “I didn’t, you all say-”

“Yeah, we all _say_ we’re gonna kill him, but we ain’t yet, Angel. Not even Boss’s done more than mess him up, take a couple of weeks to heal up. Doc got after him once, had to be in bed for three, but even then, Peter,” and Steve smiles, he actually smiles, “Didn’t stop Harley from being Harley. He’ll be fine, Angel, I promise you that. He’ll be a little quiet, quick to say sir, for a day or two, but he ain’t down there _dying_. Thrashing’s not gonna kill him. Hardly even gonna put a dent in him, trust me, we been trying for years, now.”

Peter gasps back tears, and Steve’s hands come up to cup his chin. “I promise, Peter Stark,” he says, his voice gentle, soothing. “I know you jump around half outta your skin, just walking around, and you got a right to it, living with the Butcher,” Peter gasps again, because he’s never heard any one of them just say it, like they know it, like the Tony that they talk about and argue with and, and _kiss,_ matches the Shadowy Tony Stark of the yellow sheets Peter sold on street corners. “But you’re a Stark, kid, and _so is Harley._ You got an entire Empire keeping you safe, the both of yous. Harley’ll be fine, I promise. No need to panic on account of him getting strapped for being a damn fool.”

Peter nods, face flushing with a different kind of embarrassment now. “S-sorry, Steve,” he mutters. “I shoulda, shoulda known.” Should have trusted, he corrects.

“We ain’t none of us got clean hands, Angel, but yeah, you _shoulda,_ ” says Steve. Peter gasps to hear the hard tone in Steve’s voice, tears starting in his eyes. He blinks them back, as Steve shakes his chin and says, “Yeah, Angel, that’s right, you should be ashamed, thinkin’ that of your family. We’re _Starks_ , Peter, we don’t go around _hanging_ each other.”

Peter gasps again, around the tightness in his chest. “I’ll let Pepper deal with the running, there’s a chance she’ll have some ideas to help you remember to open your mouth and talk t’me, without earning yourself a strapping, too,” Steve informs him. Peter shivers, because he’s _so sorry_ , he doesn’t need that, he doesn’t, he’s _sorry already._ But he’s not sure Steve would listen, if the man thought Peter needed a licking. He hasn’t had any success talking Steve outta anything, really, so far, and that’s when the man’s not in a temper. “But just you remember, Peter Stark, you got it wrong, this time, wrong about Bucky, wrong about how the world works. You think on that, ‘til Pepper helps you make it right.”

Peter nods his head in Steve’s hand, eyes closing in a wince, thinking about how Bucky _belongs_ to Steve, calls him Captain, and how Peter thought Bucky could, Bucky was going to- thought Harley wasn’t safe with Bucky. He feels small, and petty, and _wrong,_ hanging there, chin in Steve’s hands. He feels the flush creep up his cheeks and twists a little in Steve’s grip.

“Mm, I can see you are,” says Steve in a grim tone. “You stay next to my side, you get more than an arm’s reach away from me until we’re home and I’m not gonna be responsible for how I handle it, you hear?”

Peter whispers, “Yes, sir,” and then opens his eyes, looking at Steve’s shirtfront, waiting.

“Okay, let’s hoof it down, now, see if they’re done, head out to the car if they’re not there,” says Steve. Peter winces, and Steve says, “Yeah, I don’t envy you the talk Bucky’s gonna be having with you, for running, when he told you to be smart.” Peter stumbles on a step, eyes wide, and Steve throws an arm out to catch him. “Is-is he-” gasps Peter. “Is he gonna-”

“Don’t you run about that,” orders Steve, eyes flinty as he looks up at Peter. “I gotta chase you twice, I’ll let _Tony_ have at ya for ducking his plan for security,” Peter gasps, fingers clutching the arm in front of him, imagining Tony’s opinion of Peter’s responses to today so far. “But if you’re asking, I don’t think he will. Bucky knows about bolting, kid, he knows about needing to get out.” Steve nods decisively and Peter nods back, comforted, his heart slowing down a bit. “He’ll think you’re soft in the head. But he knows he’s a wolf and you’re a lamb and lambs’re afraid of wolves sometimes.” Steve shrugs, and Peter lets go of his arm, hands dropping to his side, feet shifting on his step. Steve swipes at the wrinkles on his sleeve and slots Peter another dark look. “So come on, lamb, let’s go find your wolf, get us all outta here and back home, where everyone should be.”

Peter nods again, mouth dry, and thinks of Pepper’s face, how it’s going to fall into lines of disappointment when Steve tells her what Peter did. Steve says, coldly, “Yeah, you should feel bad, you go on feeling that way, Angel, I ain’t ready for anything less,” and then turns, leading the way down the stairs. Peter stays one single step behind him the whole way to the basement, eyes fixed on the man’s shoulder, cheeks burning.

~~~

When they get out to the car, because by the time they got down the stairs, the locker room had been locked with no light peeking out from under the door, Bucky is leaning against the front and Harley is already sitting inside, behind the driver’s seat. “Where’d you get to?” he asks Steve, glancing between the both of them. Steve shakes his head, pulling Peter ahead of him by the bicep and saying shortly, “Get in, beside Harley, and _stay put._ I mean it, Peter Stark. _”_

“Oh, damn,” swears Bucky. “The both of them? _Both_ of them?”

“Just drive,” grits Steve, opening his own car door, waiting for Peter to close the door behind him before climbing in. He turns around to face the backseat immediately, face stern and unimpressed.

Peter stares at Harley, sitting quietly on the seat beside him. Harley shoots him a shamefaced twitch of a smile and croaks, “Hey, Angel. S-sorry you had to get drug out to come chasin’ me.”

Peter shakes his head, and slots Steve a glance. “Wasn’t any kind of hardship. I’ll always chase you, Harley,” he offers, because it seems like the kind of thing you should tell people, the kind of thing they oughta know, they oughta hear from you.

Harley huffs a laugh at that and says, “You’re so _good_ , Angel.”

“And you’re shutting up,” says Bucky, sliding behind the wheel. “I don’t want to hear anything outta you this whole ride home. Gonna finish that up when we get home, don’t want to risk you saying something gets my blood pressure too high.”

Harley winces, but when Peter looks at him in concern, one hand creeping across the bench seat towards him, he shakes his head and offers Peter a cocky grin, rolling his eyes a little.

“Angel,” says Steve to Bucky, as the car approaches the parking lot exit, “lit out, had to run up four flights of stairs before I got him back.”

“He did what?” barks Bucky, pulling them out into traffic. His hands tighten on the steering wheel and he throws a glare back at Peter, who shrinks back into the seat and stares out the window, cheeks flushing again.

“He was sure you was gonna kill Harley, didn’t want to stay around for the red paint to hit the walls,” Steve informs him, exasperated, shifting in his seat to look at Harley. “Which wouldn’t have been a fear of his if you’d had a thought in your head these past two weeks wasn’t about hootch or skirts or showing up Johnny Storm.”

Harley opens his mouth to protest, but then looks at the back of Bucky’s head and closes it, shifting uncomfortably on the seat. He crosses his arms and glares at Steve, who raises a single eyebrow and says, “You think that’s a smart idea right now, Hellcat? I know Bucky don’t mind if I crawl back there and keep you in the right frame of mind. And I’m in the mood to blister the both of you, you give me half a chance.”

Harley uncrosses his arms immediately, switching to glowering at the seat in front of him. “Smart,” comments Steve, turning around. Bucky snorts.

A minute or two goes by and then Bucky says, “I can see where you’d be nervy, Angel, but didn’t I specifically say you was to be smart today, stick close?”

“Yes, sir,” says Peter promptly, looking at the seat in front of him, trying to pitch it loud enough to be heard over the noise of the car. “I am sorry, Bucky,” he continues, voice choking a little. “I wasn’t running _away_ , I was just, I was just running,” he finishes, lamely.

Bucky grunts, and then says, “Yeah, we know something about that, don’t we, Harleycat?”

Harley rolls his eyes expressively, but then nods. His hand creeps across the bench seat, grabs for Peter’s. He tugs Peter closer, mouthing, “Sorry, Angel.” Peter slides across the seat, trying to be quiet, and feels his heart jump a little when Harley wraps an arm around him and pulls him close.

“Well, learn how to stick close when you get like that, won’t be a problem,” says Bucky magnanimously. “It becomes a problem, I’ll help cure it,” he adds darkly. Steve snorts.

“You only got one cure for everything,” teases Steve.

“Ain’t failed me yet,” agrees Bucky. The car falls silent, and Peter stares out the far window, propped up against Harley, watching the shacks turn into apartment buildings, turn into fancier buildings, as they climb the social strata back to the Stark Estate.

“Racing motorcycle chariots,” snorts Steve.

“Mm,” grunts Bucky.

Harley pulls Peter tighter and whispers in his ear, “Tony’d love it.” Peter chokes, and Steve slots them a suspicious glare. Peter makes his eyes wide and innocent and Steve turns back to the front with a snort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Motorcycle chariot racing is a real thing that really happened, I shit you not.
> 
> https://www.earthlymission.com/watch-a-motorcycle-chariot-race-from-the-1920s/


	4. Chapter 4

“All right, Hellcat, let’s go,” says Bucky, opening the door. “Finish you off and you can spend some time thinking on how you’re going to explain to the Boss at dinner why you’re sitting funny.” 

Harley groans, but stands stiffly from the car. “I got it, Bucky, I do, I promise, you don’t hafta” he offers, but it’s not even a real effort, thinks Peter.

“You start whining about it, I’ll make sure to do it again tomorrow,” Bucky tells him shortly. “Deal’s a deal.”

“No, I got it, I can take it,” Harley assures him hurriedly. Bucky snorts and grabs him by the collar, hauling him along to one of the outbuildings.

Peter closes the door and shoots a glance at Steve. “Yeah, you too, let’s go find Pepper,” says Steve darkly.

Peter gulps and nods, then adds, “Yes, sir.”

They track her down in her parlor, sitting at her desk answering correspondence. She looks up at them with a smile and says, “Successful hunt, gentlemen?” She takes in how Steve pushes Peter before him over to her desk and her face falls, exactly like in Peter’s nightmare thoughts about this moment on the ride home. “Oh, dear,” she comments, slowly, looking Peter up and down, reading who-knows-what in his body language. “What happened?” she asks Steve.

“Oh, I think he oughta tell you that himself,” prods Steve.

Peter shakes his head, dropping his eyes from her kind and concerned gaze. He takes a deep breath and tells her, “I ran off,” in a small voice, as small as he feels right now.

“You ran off?” she asks, disbelieving, and he catches her glance up at Steve out of the corner of his eye. “Are you all right? Was someone- did something happen?”

“‘M fine,” he mumbles, ducking his head even farther. “No, ma’am, just, just ran off, when Bucky was tanning Harley.”

She sits back slightly and says, “Well, it’s a relief you found him. What has he been doing?”

“Him and a bunch of other young dandy fools bought up motorcycles and been attaching them to chariots, riding them around the racetrack, like to kill themselves,” reports Steve in a tone of censure.

“Oh, my,” says Pepper, her hand flying to her mouth. Peter risks a glance up and sees that her eyes are alight. He frowns.

“Ain’t funny, when you’re watching them spin out and hit walls,” Steve tells her roughly, and Peter agrees, scowling. It hadn’t been funny at all.

Her eyes sober. “No, I suppose not. Well, we’ll let the Devilside take that one for a bit, see what they do with it,” she says, nodding firmly. “Now, Peter, about this running away-”

“I wasn’t running away,” he interrupts her bitterly, glancing up into her serious eyes before glaring back down again. “I was just, I was just _running._ ”

“Up four flights of stairs and around half the stadium,” reports Steve. “Chased him, four steps behind the whole blasted way. Wouldn’t stop when I shouted.”

“Oh, Peter,” she says, and he bites his lip because she sounds so _disappointed_. “Steve is there to protect you, to keep you safe. You can’t run from him, Angel.”

“That’s what I said,” agrees Steve, shifting his weight. “Could tan him, but I figured maybe you’d have an idea, this being his first time.”

She nods, “Yes, thank you, Steve. What a kind thing to offer him. He didn’t mean to do it, I can tell.”

“Can’t have him running off, is all, Pep, whether he means it or not,” says Steve regretfully, and Peter’s eyes fill with tears, because it’s so embarrassing having them talk over him, like he’s not standing right there, but he also doesn’t feel like he should protest, somehow. 

“Mm. Well, my old governess had a trick, Peter, that I’d like to try, when she wanted me to remember something very important. This is very important, Angel, you can’t run from Steve, not that way, when you’re not somewhere safe.” Peter nods, because her voice is so kind. She rummages in her desk, opening a journal and lifting a pen. She writes something across the top of the page, and then holds it out for Steve to see. “100?” She murmurs, “Ought to keep him busy until dinnertime, Steve, so you can go get sorted.”

Steve nods, and hands the ledger back. “Thanks, Pepper, knew you’d have an idea. Gonna go shake the dust and see if Bucky needs anything.”

Pepper smiles at him and motions Peter to the empty school desk beside hers. “You sit there, young man. Harley sits there for his lessons, but today you need a lesson. He won’t begrudge you the use of it. I want this copied out, in your best hand, 100 times. Get started, Peter,” she prompts, as he reads and re-reads the phrase in her genteel hand, eyes filling with tears again.

_I am a Stark. Starks stand together, no matter what adversity they face._

He gulps, and slumps down onto the hard wooden bench seat, mumbling, “Yes, ma’am,” in a choked voice. She passes him a pen, and he bends over his lesson, listening to the quiet of her nib scratching against the fancy parchments in front of her.

~~~

It feels like hours later before he’s done, his hand cramping. He shakes it out as she checks his work, counting, actually counting, to be sure he’s written an even hundred.

“Well done, in a neat and efficient hand,” she praises quietly. “And has the lesson sunk in?” she asks, her eyes kind on his face.

Peter nods solemnly. “Good, son,” she teases. “I do hope you won’t stress the good Captain by forgetting it any time soon. Four flights of stairs seems a bit much, somehow.”

“I- I’m sorry, Pepper,” he blurts.

She smiles and says gently, “And I forgive you, Peter. Why don’t you leave this with me, and head up to your room, see if Harley needs anything before dinner?”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Peter tells her, and then, impulsively, he darts forward and kisses her cheek. “I am sorry,” he says, shamefaced.

“You’re forgiven, Angel,” she murmurs, reaching a hand up to press the kiss in, eyes soft on his face. “Go help Harley, see if you can soak some of that goodness into him.”

He nods, and leaves the room. He takes the back stairs up to the family wing, slipping into his room. Bucky and Steve are both on the bed, reading books, with Harley stretched out facedown between them. Peter winces as he closes the door, because the extent of Bucky’s handiwork is evident even from the doorway.

“Hello, Angel,” calls Steve softly, and Harley shifts, mumbling incoherently. Bucky slides a hand through Harley’s hair, settling him with a fond smile. “C’mon over,” says Steve, waving Peter over to his side of the bed.

Peter knows his eyes are wide as he looks over at the criss cross of angry red lines all across Harley’s back and thighs, disappearing under the drawers he’s wearing. Steve gathers up his hands, tugging him closer, and inspects them, asking, “These stains mean you’re done?”

“Pepper counted,” Peter offers as evidence, eyes shifting between Steve’s gaze and Harley’s still form. “Said they were fair.”

“And do you remember the lesson? Think it’s going to stick?” asks Steve seriously. 

Peter nods and tells him, “Yes, sir.” 

“Mm,” comments Steve. “Then I think you should go have that chat with Bucky.”

Peter stares at him, fear rising in a second to choke him. “B-but, but Steve,” he whimpers.

“No, he’s as much Stark as you are, for all he doesn’t have the name like you do, and you just got done learning that lesson. Go talk to him. I’ll be right here, make sure he doesn’t bite too hard,” chuckles Steve, pushing Peter away gently, patting Peter on the backside to get him moving. 

Peter walks slowly around the bed, swallowing as he draws nearer to Bucky. Bucky marks his place and puts the book on the bedside table. He raises an eyebrow in inquiry at Peter and says, like he’s playing along, “There something you need to say, Angel?

“J-just sorry,” admits Peter. “I- I, I’m just sorry, I guess.”

“Well, you should be,” agrees Bucky. “You can’t run away from one of us like that, again. Anything could happen, and you, outta all of us, are about as suited to address it as a daisy. No matter what kind of gun tricks Clint is teaching you.”

Peter flinches and nods. He knows that. He knows there’s always someone, always the chance, not everybody likes Tony Stark. He’s a man of many enemies. He’s only the fat cat because he has more allies, currently. “I didn’t even have a gun,” he agrees with Bucky. “But I- I didn’t do it on purpose,” he says, in his own defense. “I wasn’t _trying_ to.”

“No, Steve told me that, that you was out of your mind thinking I’d kill Harley here,” agrees Bucky. 

Harley moans, “You did, I’m dead, Jimmyboy, I’m dead,” and Bucky chuckles, scrubbing a hand through the miserable man’s hair. 

“You can’t know which way you’re going, still,” muses Bucky, glaring at the footboard of the bed, not looking at Peter so hard it makes Peter’s breath twist sideways. “You ain’t seen enough yet to know for sure which way is up. You fit, right away, so we forget that sometimes, I think.” He slots Steve a look and Steve shrugs, conceding the possibility. “You ain’t wrong to be afraid, Angel,” says Bucky slowly. “And I don’t take it as an insult that you thought I could do something worth running from. I done a lot of stuff worth running from, and knowing this business, I’m like to do it again and again, too.”

“But not to Harley,” says Peter softly. _Not to me_.

“No, probably not to Harley, ‘nless, well, sometimes devils need a little rough handling, when they get outta their minds, Peter,” he says seriously, his eyes solemn and full of damnation Peter can see but can’t imagine. “But you think I was gonna wander around here mad every afternoon all week, go out with him doing rounds with Tony all night, and then cross that line over some mischief? Naw, Angel, not over mischief.”

“Did almost kill me,” grunts Harley. “Had me begging for death.”

Peter swallows, but he can see that Harley’s teasing. He looks rough and raw, but not, there’s no blood, there’s nothing _broken_. 

“No whining or I’ll do it again tomorrow,” warns Bucky, tapping the man on one of the welts to make him hiss. “A deal’s a deal, Harleycat.” 

Peter winces. “Not about to kill him, unless there’s no other option,” Bucky tells Peter seriously. “He loses his damn mind, should be family does it, but somehow I don’t ever see that happening, do you?”

Peter shakes his head. “No, me neither,” says Bucky quietly. “Not now, now that he’s ours, now he’s got people to care for him. Somehow I think he’ll be just fine.”

Harley squirms at this, closer to Bucky, turning his head to nuzzle under Bucky’s arm, hidden from Peter’s view. Bucky pats him, gently, where his hand rests on Harley’s back. Harley mumbles wordlessly, but it doesn’t even sound pained this time.

Peter sighs, “I’m _sorry_ , Bucky.”

“No need,” says Bucky, scrubbing a hand over his face, reaching out to Peter. Peter lets himself be drawn forward, drawn in and up, settled on Bucky’s lap. “I’m a big bad wolf, Peter,” he says seriously. “And I know it. Little shepherd boy like you oughta run, you see me.”

Steve and Harley both make noises of negation. Peter puts one hand out, rests it on Bucky’s chest, and shakes his head, because he won’t run, now. He won’t run from this wolf. “I just lost my damn fool mind,” he tells Bucky seriously, stumbling over the language, trying to get Bucky’s grumpy cadence correct. He shoots Bucky a grin when he’s done.

Bucky’s eyebrows fly up and he growls, “What are those words coming out of your mouth, Angel?” He jiggles his leg, threateningly, and Peter clutches at his shirt, smiling.

“Lost my damn fool mind,” he repeats, unable to keep the smile off his lips.

“I got soap, I got soap right over there, little shepherd,” says Bucky, jiggling his leg again, his voice teasing. “You want to try again?”

“Lost my mind,” laughs Peter easily, glad the other man is taking it in the spirit he meant it. “Lost my mind, Bucky, forgot it was _you_. Forgot you was _our_ wolf.”

Harley mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, “ _My_ wolf,” but Bucky’s eyes are twinkling at Peter, so he ignores Harley. 

“Just you go running _to_ Steve next time,” says Bucky simply. “Captain’s got the leash you want. Safest place in the world, beside him.”

Peter looks over at Steve, who looks back at him and raises a single eyebrow in challenge. Peter blushes and says, “Yes, sir,” to both of them, equally.

“Well, if you’re all gonna jaw, I won’t sleep,” says Harley mulishly, “and then I don’t know why I haveta stay in this bed.” He wriggles.

“You’re stayin’ in the bed,” grunts Steve, smacking him on the back with the heel of his hand, making Harley flinch and mutter. “Whether you use the time wisely is up to you.”

Harley pops his head up and looks sharply at Peter, and then grabs him, wrestling him down on the bed in between Harley and Bucky. “You was worried for me?” he coos into Peter’s ear, wrapping his arms around Peter’s torso, throwing a leg over Peter’s legs, trapping him to the bed. “My hero, running off and leaving me to get eaten up by the big bad wolf.”

“I wasn’t worried about you, I was worried about the dry-cleaning bill,” retorts Peter, blushing straight up to his roots anyway.

“Aww, that’s so wifey of you,” teases Harley. Peter glowers and elbows him, making him knock back against Steve, who startles and announces, “I will settle you down if need be. Either one of you. _Both_ of you.” 

Harley stills immediately, and says, nuzzling Peter’s temple, “No need, I’ll be good, no need to go hitting Angel today, he’s had enough.”

“ _You_ had enough, Hellcat,” says Peter, wrapping his free arm around the arm Harley is using to hold him in place.

“Nah, Bucky just wanted to make a point, which he did,” mutters Harley. “This ain’t the worst whupping he ever given me for sneaking off, though it’s hard to remember that, lying here in the quiet.”

“‘S why we was making you lie here, in the quiet,” laughs Bucky, picking up his book. “And it’s about to get quiet again, so if you want to be loud, Peter, you clear out. Dinner’s not for an hour yet, and I mean to make Harley think he’s near death with silence and stillness before then.”

Peter shakes his head, and he can feel Harley’s smile bloom against his forehead, where the other man is resting his cheek. “We’ll be good,” Peter assures the other men. “We’ll be quiet.” Harley nods, squeezing Peter just a titch tighter and sighing.

“Mm- hmm,” hums Steve doubtfully, but Peter can feel his arm reach down to rest on Harley, fingers caressing little circles across the hot angry flesh. Harley shifts, but doesn’t whine, doesn’t mumble, just lays there, breathing.

Peter lays in his arms, with Bucky’s leg pressed against his other side, and tries his best to be good and quiet, for Harley’s sake.

~~~

There’s a flurry of activity before dinner, as Harley tries to cover up the status of his back, legs, and backside, while also getting ready for the night, while also trying to duck out of doing rounds with Tony without raising Tony’s suspicion. It’s not working at all, thinks Peter, because Tony is definitely getting more and more suspicious. Steve and Bucky are trying to run interference, but that only seems to make Tony even more suspicious. Pepper watches with a small smile on her lips that she covers whenever anyone glances at her. Peter only catches it because he’s beside her on the couch.

Finally, Tony stalks over to Peter and crouches in front of him, puts two hands on either side of Peter to box him in tight, and growls, “All right, weakest link, spill. Why’s Harley totin’ a whuppin’ and everyone’s acting like I’m gonna kill him when I find out why?” There’s a twinkle in his eyes, but Peter bites his lip, nervous anyway.

“Uh,” says Peter, and he definitely does not look to anyone else for advice or help or support or _retreat_. Tony is the Boss around here, he’s made that very clear in the past few weeks. _Everyone_ has made that clear. 

“Harley’s been sneaking out, last couple of days,” admits Peter. Harley and Bucky both grunt, and Harley takes a step back into Steve’s space, hand slipping behind his back like he’s seeking support and strength. Mr. Stark’s eyes don’t lose their twinkle even a little, and Peter marvels at that as he continues, “And so today Bucky and Steve and me, we followed him and, uh, he was racing motorcycles with Johnny Storm-” he can see the other three men wince, but he’s _learned_ , okay, they _taught him_ , that Tony is the Boss, he’s not gonna get in trouble for leaving out details. “And so Bucky licked him for sneaking and for doing something so dangerous without tellin’ anybody.” There. It’s out now. Tony’s lips twitch, and Peter stares back, keeping his face honest and smooth and trying to not panic about anything. He’s trying not to panic so hard that his fingers are leaving indents in his thighs, in fact.

“Huh,” says Tony, tilting his head in curiosity, leaning forward a little more. “What’s dangerous about racing motorcycles? Steve and Bucky race theirs all the time.”

“They got motorcycles?” gasps Peter, eyes flying up to the other men in shock. Both Steve and Bucky shrug and roll their eyes at him.

Tony snaps his fingers, drawing Peter’s attention back. “What’s dangerous about racing motorcycles, dangerous enough to warrant a whuppin’ from the wolf?”

“Uh,” and Peter licks his lips. He _will not_ look at Harley. He _won’t._ He will _answer the Boss’s question_. “He wasn’t gonna ride the motorcycle? He was- they built a, um, a chariot, for behind it?”

“A chariot?” repeats Tony, his eyebrows flying up and his jaw dropping. Peter winces and knows he’s not alone, everyone in sight is wincing, Pepper included.

Peter’s just going to let that settle in a bit, he’s not going to volunteer stuff. He works on breathing shallowly and praying Tony’s done asking him questions.

“Huh,” says Tony, settling back a little, shifting his weight. “You see his?”

“I don’t, I dunno,” says Peter. “I saw _one_.”

“It was Johnny’s,” mutters Harley, shoving his pocketwatch in his pocket and glaring at Peter like this is _Peter’s_ fault. “We was working on the relays.”

“How fast you go?” asks Tony, eyes never leaving Peter’s face.

“Fastest we ever managed on the track was fifty,” admits Harley, and Bucky’s hand flies up to smack him on the back of the head like he can’t help it. Harley glares at Bucky, but just for a moment, because Bucky is glaring even harder at him. Harley drops his eyes quickly and adjusts his collar pin nervously.

“Fifty?!” yelps Steve, a second later, like the number just registered, and smacks Harley upside the head, too. “On _that_ track?”

“Naw, on the straightaway,” says Harley, rubbing the back of his head, shooting Steve a glare that twitches into another ducked head grimace as Steve glares right back at him.

“You going tomorrow, Hellcat?” asks Tony, and his lips are twitching again, Peter notices, aghast.

Harley eyes up Bucky out of the corner of his eyes. “Dunno, sir,” he says. “Not up to me, I guess.”

“Oh, we’re going,” announces Tony, nodding his head, eyes still on Peter. “You’re gonna show me, I gotta see this. When’s the race?”

“Next week,” says Harley cautiously, a small smile starting to twitch his lips. Steve raises his eyes heavenward and finishes tying his tie, tucking it against his chest and roughly closing the vest, his motions telling a story about his disbelief and exasperation. Bucky just scowls. “Tuesday night.”

“Pepper, clear it,” orders Tony, standing. “I gotta go see my boy win a _motorcycle chariot race._ ”

“Oh, Tony, we had that dinner,” sighs Pepper, but her lips are twitching, too, “with Schwab, about the beams for the tower.”

“Reschedule, he needs my money, needs the publicity, he’ll do it,” says Tony negligently, straightening his coat and snapping for Peter to stand up and follow him. “Or, wait, better yet, don’t cancel it, what time’s the race, Hellcat?”

“Seven,” says Harley promptly, with a huge smile, rocking on the balls of his feet, eyes twinkling. “Should be done by eight, before we lose the light.” He tosses Bucky a triumphant grin that doesn’t even falter when the man lifts an eyebrow at him.

“Schedule us around that,” says Tony authoritatively. “We’ll all go, the whole family, be a treat to get out, take Schwab with us if he’s willing, he’ll like it. He’s an engineer, Pep, he’ll like it.”

“Yes, Mr. Stark,” she murmurs serenely, standing, moving to take Happy’s arm just as serenely, but Peter knows she’s a traitor because her lips keep twitching.

“Hot damn,” says Tony, clapping his hands together before grabbing Harley by the bicep. Peter watches him note Harley’s wince and smile even more broadly because of it, from what Peter can tell. “I thought everything was slowing down with ‘Tasha out of town but you got me a treat like this? Tell me everything, I have to know everything, how’d you find the race?” He pulls Harley along after him and Peter decides the snap he gives is probably just for Peter to stand, not to follow at his shoulder. It’s hard to know, because it turns out snapping your fingers isn’t the best form of communication between two people.

He sighs, and follows Pepper and Happy out of the room, and is unfortunately still in earshot as Bucky mutters to Steve, “Damn fools, need someone willing to whup _him_ , would make the world of ours a whole lot calmer place.”

“You said it,” agrees Steve, “but I ain’t volunteering.”

Bucky snorts and Peter scoots just a little faster, because there’s no way he’s not sitting down by Pepper tonight, as close to Pepper as he can get, even if she is a traitor, and that means he’ll have to be ready to sit and sit fast.

He’s a fool, sometimes, but he’s not that kind of damn fool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, friends. I adopted a homeless family soooo things at home have gotten a little tight in terms of money and time (I picked up extra hours at a couple of my jobs to afford the food bills, jeebus can teenagers eat). That means my writing time is, uh, severely curtailed.
> 
> Don't hate me. I'm trying to do a good thing and it's just until they get their feet under them. Couple of months tops. I promise I've got some stuff in beta that I can post in the coming weeks to keep you going and I've got so much written in my head, I'm not abandoning anything. AND I'm writing little bits in the corners of my day.
> 
> Remember to be the change you want to see in the world. Be nice.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a link to the song in the title, if you want it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vH-V7YUFWNs
> 
> You can absolutely meet me in the comments section with ideas for future scenes and chapters in this AU. It's definitely very work-in-progress.
> 
> ALSO ALSO, I am looking for new stories/authors to read. If you want to make it feel like my birthday, you could take this opportunity to throw me some links to your faves! Anything well written works for me (it doesn't HAVE to be filthy, but filthy's fine, I'm fine with filthy. LOOK AT WHAT I WRITE, I'm fine with filthy)!


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